


Obsidian

by FayeC



Series: Obsidian [1]
Category: Original Works
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Arranged Marriage, Bows & Arrows, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fantasy, Freedom, Gen, Heartbreaking, Horses, Love, Love Triangles, Original Fiction, Revenge, Slavery, Swords, Tragedy, Unrequited Love, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-03-06 06:24:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 78,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13405344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayeC/pseuds/FayeC
Summary: A story of love, loyalty, and revenge in the time of war.





	1. Strangers in the Dark

The valley was too dark to see. There was no moon in the sky, no stars save for one or two that briefly came and went as the clouds rolled over the campsite. Tugging close the thin robe he’d stolen from the nearby village, Hasheem wished he’d taken time to find a more proper one. As things stood, it was going to take at least five more of these for him to survive the night without some kind of shelter. How foolish it was, to have thought he could survive out here in the desert with so little preparation. Or had it been pure arrogance that made him believe he could handle this after all the exhaustion from being pursued and hunted by the whole brigade of city guards? Looking at the damn robe again, he decided it was both.

Living in a city next to the desert was one thing, surviving in the middle of one was another, Hasheem realized belatedly. Torches were always abundantly lit in Rasharwi, in the hearths and along the streets after sundown, and he’d never known how much heat they generated until he’d found himself in a complete absence of one. The cold had never really bothered him any more than the heat or rain, but this, he thought, cursing himself for the tenth time that night, this was the kind of cold that could kill you whether you minded it or not. 

Life could be so ironic sometimes — or most of the time in his case. He had fought his way out of the most heavily guarded city in the peninsula, escaped pretty much unharmed save for a few flesh wounds from being pursued by almost a hundred soldiers trying to hunt him down. He had survived all this, only to find out that he might die tonight for having stolen the wrong robe to cross the desert. It was foolish to the point of being laughable, especially considering everything he’d managed to survive in the past five years.

Still it could have been worse, Hasheem reminded himself as he scanned the valley for guards from behind the shelter of a rock. The first robe he’d found could have been a revealing red, he could have been caught at the village, or killed before having reached the city gate on his way out. By then he’d been through enough crap to know there was no point in dwelling over what could have been or what else he could have done. You did what you could, with what you had, or you died, covered in your own shit and regrets. In that context, at the very least the robe he had was black. At the very least he was still breathing.

The camp was large and spanned all the way to the edges of the valley. The goat hair, tents had been dyed so black that they disappeared completely into the night from a distance. It was difficult to make out how many there were without a single fire being lit, but if he had to guess the number would be closer to a hundred than fifty. 

That particular fact didn’t sit well with him. A settlement that large, no matter how well hidden, had to have guards. But there had been none of the usual accompanying bonfire or torchlight that he could see. Either the camp was completely unprotected — which was unlikely — or the guards didn’t need light to do their job. The latter — a higher possibility given who they were — would mean that he’d be discovered the moment he moved from that rock. It would also mean being captured and eventually killed, or simply killed on sight for the intrusion. On the other hand he would likely freeze to death before sunrise unless he found shelter some time in the next hour. Between the two scenarios, freezing to death wasn’t really an option. You could always negotiate with people, but never the weather. How, he wondered, half amazed, half irritated, had he survived out here for so many years when he was just a boy?

Without much of a choice, Hasheem decided to make his way towards the stable at the far end of the camp. It would be a good place to hide out for the night. He could sneak out with a mount in the early morning. No one slept with the horses, save for the occasional stable boys in training. He might not be able to fight a well-trained warrior with numb fingers and half-frozen limbs, but he could deal with stable boys easily enough.

With a horse he could cross the desert, pass through the Djamahari mountain range and reach one of the coastal towns of Samarra without having to go through checkpoints. Assuming, of course, that he didn’t get himself lost along the way before that happened. He had been heading West, judging from where he was before sunset, but since then he hadn’t been able to tell for certain the direction to which he had been moving. Nighttime navigation was a lesson he remembered only vaguely as something he’d been taught but never had a chance to practice.  

It suddenly occurred to him, that he didn’t remember a lot of things he should have, as someone who had been born in the desert and having lived in it for ten years before his capture. By then his childhood memories had seemed like a series of distant dreams he wasn’t sure they’d really happened, and in his mind they resided too close to the things he needed to forget. To dig them up was to risk tearing open old wounds and scars he wasn’t sure would heal the second time. Some things you could only survive once, not twice.

Still, those knowledge, those skills he must have been taught from birth would have been useful for this particular situation he’d so spectacularly put himself into. It wasn’t that he’d never thought of running away, or that the idea of freedom hadn’t been on his mind twenty times a day for the past five years. But he was smart enough to know these things took time, patience and a great deal of planning. He was also smart enough to know such a plan would never involve sticking a cheese knife into a high-ranking officer’s throat in his own heavily-guarded home before escape. No, it had all been done on a whim, not so different from a sudden, uncontrollable burst of survival instinct, only this time he knew it had more to do with his own pride than with survival. He’d since come to the conclusion, that for all that he’d forgotten about his life in the desert, it would seem the one thing he’d managed to retain so relentlessly from his upbringing was his stupid pride. Five years of slavery couldn’t breed it out of him any more than two hundred years of constant raid could make the Shakshis abandon their land and bend their knees. 

Slowly he crept his way through the scattered tents and by some miracles managed to reach the stable undetected. There had been no guards along the way, and none present around the enclosure. The door had been left opened, kept ajar by a large stone that looked like it had been there for ages. It explained why he had managed to approach it so easily. Then again, considering the infamous punishment for committing a crime around here, locking up gates and doors must have seemed somewhat unnecessary. This was, after all, a camp belonging to a large khagan deep into the White Desert. A khagan full of real-life White Warriors and code-abiding, unbranded Shakshis known for — but not limited to — hacking off limbs for the less serious crimes, and heads for the more important ones. And it was just his luck, that what he’d done, or more precisely what had been done to him five years before, would qualify as the latter without him having to break a fucking code.

 _‘You have been branded,’_ Dee, the man who had over the years became both his mentor and master had reminded him before he’d left the city, _‘in the White Desert that is a death sentence._ ’ It was common knowledge, at least among the captives. A Shakshi marked with the twin blades symbol of the salar was almost always killed on sight for entering their territory. For one thing, it was deemed necessary due to the fact that they couldn’t afford to have spies in their lands. Such a mistake could wipe out an entire generation for any khagan over a single night. For another, it was a matter of honor. Leaving the desert for the comforts of the Rasharwi — of their enemy’s capital — was considered one of the most serious crimes for a Shakshi, and there had been twice as many deserters since salar Muradi had taken the throne and tripled the frequency of raids in the White Desert. Such a crime usually called for an exile of one’s entire family, with the mutual understanding that returning meant immediate death upon capture. And since the Rashais had found it convenient to brand both deserters and raid prisoners the same way when they entered the city, the khagans had also found it convenient to execute all who carried the brand indiscriminately to simplify the matter. It made sense in a way. Deserters simply didn’t return without ulterior motives, and prisoners who said they’d escaped were often spies. From their perspectives, a few innocent lives lost was worth the sacrifice. You killed or you died, that was how one survived in the desert, or in the world at large where he came from.

The brand on his back had already been taken care of two days ago. Dee had been more than generous in covering up the old scar. _‘It has to be convincing,’_ was the explanation he’d given before lighting almost the entire left side of his back on fire. _‘If you are captured, give them a good story,’_ he’d added gravely. He’d thought of asking Dee what the punishment was if they caught you lying, and realized it wouldn’t have mattered much. He was dead in any case if they found out  — or so much as suspected — where he’d been living for half a decade. 

It was strange in a way, now that he was back in the White Desert, how he’d come to look at his own people as something so foreign to him. Then again, given the fact that they were as likely to kill him as the Rashais, if not more swiftly and with less hesitation, it made no difference which side of the desert he was originally from. One could regard it as a convenience of sorts when looking at it from a certain perspective. Living — or killing  — was simpler when everyone was considered your enemy.

Leaning against the outside wall of the stable, he listened for a noise that could mean people. One window had been left opened, and through it he could only hear the sound of the horses breathing and the swatting of their tails. He entered through the front door, making his way quietly down the aisle as to not startle the animals. It was a lot warmer inside, and he was starting to feel his fingers again. He could survive the cold in here tonight, perhaps even slept comfortably if he could find a horse blanket somewhere. 

The stable was full, Hasheem realized looking at the gates. It meant that he would have to share a stall with a horse for the night. One towards the rear end would give him enough time to prepare should someone decided to enter, given that its owner was willing to accommodate him. A startled horse could wake the entire camp. It wasn’t a welcoming thought given his options.  

He stopped in front of the last stall on the right. In it was a medium-sized mare with a black mane, young, from the little he could see in the dark. She was lying on her side with a blanket covering most of her body. The left side of her hind leg had been set in a cast. _This one would be killed soon,_ he thought with an ache in his heart. An injury like that meant she wouldn’t be able to run again, and out there in the desert where food and water were scarce, she would likely be put down sooner or later. It was always a pity, having to kill such a godly creature. Then again, merciful killing was a privilege rarely offered to people like him. In that aspect, the mare’s fate seemed a lot better than his, considering the circumstance.

She lifted her head up and looked at him, her large brown eyes showed only curiosity and intelligence. A sound horse, he thought. Confident. Fearless even in her most vulnerable state. He sat down in front of her, picked up a handful of hay and allowed her to sniff at his scent. After a moment she began to feed from his hand. The mare wouldn’t give him trouble for the night, and would have let him ride her away without a fuss had she been able to run. He knew this. He had always been exceptionally good with horses, and they tended to warm up to him more readily than most people. It was the case with the mare, who was already settling her head in his arms as he ran a hand up and down the side of her neck. She was beautiful, a well-bred chestnut who’d been superbly cared for, a princess amongst horses, now that he’d had a chance to observe her more closely. A real pity, that he couldn’t take her with him.

It must have been the cold that numbed his senses, or the fact that he’d been so preoccupied with the horse that he had’t anticipated beforehand when something slick and cool grazed the back of his neck.  He froze immediately at the realization of what it could be. No, he knew for certain what it was. Only one thing felt that way against his skin.

“Step away from her. Now.”

 

xxxx

 

She had been in an argument with her father earlier that evening. Or perhaps she should have chosen a different word. No one argued with the kha’a, not truly, not even his own children. You could offer him suggestions and pray that he listened, or you obeyed his commands and forgot about the alternatives.

 _Her mother might have_ , Djari thought as her memories resurfaced. The kha’ri of Visarya, with her honey-sweet manner and otherworldly calmness had been known for her ability to move mountains of difficult men with just her words, and her husband had not been an exception. Djari wished sometimes, now more so than ever, that she had inherited some of that disposition, or that her mother had been there to help change her father’s decision. But she was the kind of girl who would more likely cause a fight with her words than to stop one, and her mother had been dead a long time ago.

 _“She is your horse,”_ her father had said, _“put her down.”_ The decision had been swift, and as kha’a he’d expected it to be carried out just as swiftly. In a way it was standard practice. A horse with a broken leg could never run again and had to be put out of its misery. For more than a week she had deliberately ignored his command, and his patience had run its course that afternoon when he’d entered the stable to find her horse alive and well, with her stall cleaned and the hay freshly replaced. 

 _“I want her taken care of tonight. That is final!”_ The command, this time, had been spoken with the tone of a kha’a to his subject, not of a father to his child. He did that a lot since her mother had died. The kha’a of Visarya had always been a hard man with a certain reputation that preceded him, but there was permanent anger in him where there hadn’t been before, as if to fill the space of her absence now that she had been gone.

She had wanted to say no, to tell him that there was still a chance she could heal, or find some other excuses that would lead to a different outcome. But the tone he’d used had left no room for objections, and he’d chosen to say it in a tent full of chiefs and White Warriors. She was old and responsible enough to know it had been neither place nor time for a display of disobedience — not without demeaning the kha’a in front of his men. Still, it had been her brother’s signal — a slight raise of his hand only she could see — that had truly stopped her. Nazir was both their khumar and their oracle. If he told you nothing could be done, it could not be done. She knew then that the fate of her horse had already been decided, and not quite by her father. 

That night she had left the tent without finishing her dinner. It was her only way to protest, to deal with her disappointment, her pain, despite Nazir’s vision or her father’s anger. Lady had been her mother’s horse, one that had been passed down to her after she’d passed away. She was her first responsibility, her friend, the only thing in the world her mother had left behind for her, and for three years she had taken care of the mare, had washed her, fed her, and even helped her deliver a foal over the summer. How, Djari had asked herself a hundred times for the past few days, could she end such a life even if she decided to?

The blade on her lap gleamed like a newly polished silver. It felt heavier now than when she was sharpening it a few days before. She opened her hand and closed it again around the hilt of the dagger and realized her palm was now slick with sweat from having done so for the past hour. No matter how much it was going to pain her, eventually she was going to have to do it. Everyone did. Everyone had their first kill. She just didn’t think it would be something so dear to her heart.

“You don’t have to do it yourself,” a voice sounded from behind, gentle and comforting, the way her mother’s had been. “No one would know.”

When he’d come into her tent, she couldn’t tell. Nazir had seemed to be able to appear out of thin air, like all the other impeccably trained White Warriors. He was now one of them, having earned his Zikh a little more than year ago. It was one of the first few things they were taught and tested — to track and kill silently. Things they would never teach her. 

“ _I_ would know,” she replied without looking up from the dagger. Lady was her responsibility from the moment she had been passed down to her, and she would be to the last breath she took. It had never crossed her mind to hide behind someone else’s knife watching her horse being slaughtered for her. That part had never been the issue, no matter how difficult it would be for her to summon such a strength. What she had been hesitating over was _if_ and _when_ to let go. 

Nazir sighed and seated himself at an arm’s length away. She didn’t have to look up to see the expression on his face to know those smooth, shapely brows resembling her mother’s would be knitted watching her then. He’d always found her difficult. They all did. She never understood why. 

“It’s only tradition, Djari,” he paused, taking time to choose his words carefully, “not an expectation for everyone to follow through.” 

 _Not for a girl to follow through_ , was what had been intentionally omitted from the sentence. Nazir was well esteemed for his subtlety. Djari, however, had been around her brother long enough to catch the real meaning behind his diplomatic statements.

She looked up at him then, her chest filled to the brim with anger that had been accumulating for days. There may not have been a written law that said she would have to kill her own horse, but for generations it had been deemed the responsibility of every man to execute his own prisoner, and every person to end the lives of their own animal when the time came. You finish what you’d started, not leave it for another to clean up your mess. How much of a loser did Nazir think she was, to believe she would hide behind such an excuse, to think that she could have lived with it? 

“I am daughter to a kha’a, a bharavi of Visarya, and the future kha’ari of a khagan. It is expected of me,” Djari said, drawing herself up as tall as she could. She was every one of those things and was perfectly capable of fulfilling her duties. “If we do not uphold tradition, no one will.” Her mother had said those words to her when she had asked why her hair had to be braided this way and that, or why she could only choose a khumar or a kha’a to be her future husband. They were the ruling family of their khagan. Whatever happened to the Visaryas — good or bad — was their doing.

 “You are also thirteen.” Nazir’s breathing seemed more difficult than usual when he spoke. “There are plenty of time and opportunities for you to carry that weight on your shoulders. It doesn’t have to begin now.”

Under different circumstances, she might have taken it as one of his efforts to change her mind, but there was something different about the way he looked at her then, or how those words had been spoken. Nazir’s expression was unusually grim and serious. He only looked like that when he had to reveal something he didn’t want to. Immediately, she understood what he was trying to to tell her. There would be much, much bigger sacrifices than this that she would have to make for them.

“You have seen this,” she said, holding her breath for the confirmation. She had been taught her whole life what her responsibilities as a bharavi were, the same way her brother had been taught what it meant to have been born an oracle, on top of being the future kha’a. Whatever Nazir had seen in his visions wouldn’t have placed such a weight on him had they been some normal routines she’d already known. No, this was something else. Something more unfortunate than arranged marriage, or confinement, or being stripped to the bones of every freedom given to every free person in the desert. Those things she had been preparing for from the day she had been born. ‘ _There is always a price to privilege. A heavier one when you are born a girl,’_ her mother had said. 

Nazir drew a long, unsteady breath and looked away, his gaze lingered somewhere far out on the dark horizon. The wind blew in past the opening of her tent and tugged gently on his white robe. She saw him wince a little, and knew for certain that it hadn’t been for the cold. Nazir had been like that once, in the morning on the day their mother had left camp and never returned. For hours he’d stood in the same spot where he’d watched the caravan disappeared behind the valley. No one had understood why until the news had come of the attack two days later. She’d never seen him so vulnerable as he had been then. Being the only son, Nazir had been born a khumar, and it was a role he’d always filled to perfection in both duty and appearance. That morning he hadn’t looked like one. He’d looked like a boy, a brother, a son, the same way he looked now.

“I’m sorry,” he said after some time. 

She wanted to comfort him, to tell him that she would be all right, that whatever he’d seen in his visions he didn’t need to carry alone. But Nazir was Nazir. He knew his place in the world and the price of his rare, god-given gift of foresight. It was his responsibility to bear the fate of the entire desert, to carry an awareness of blood to be shed and battles to be won an lost, to live with the premonition of his own death and that of the people he loved, alone. And she, Djari thought with a newly found anger directed within, she was throwing a fit over a horse. 

With that thought she tightened the grip on the dagger and rose swiftly to her feet. “if I am to carry such a weight,” she nodded at him in acknowledgement, in resolution, “then it might as well begin now.”

“Djari…” Nazir sighed her name a lot. He found her headstrong and impossible. She knew.

“Call it early training.” She put on her goatskin robe then flung her bow and quiver over her shoulder. Her father had instructed that she carried a weapon at all time even at camp. With her mother gone, the kha’a was taking no chances, to the point that she hadn’t been allowed to leave the compound for three years without an army of Zikh-clad warriors forming a tight circle around her like they had been about to go to war. Nazir had agreed on this, for some reasons. _‘Not yet,’_ he’d always said when she’d asked him if she would ever be able to leave camp with a little more discretion. She wondered what he’d meant, and what else he hadn’t told her.

“Nazir,” she turned to ask just before she left the tent. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner that she wasn’t going to heal?” She would have listened to him, and would have given up on her mare days before. Instead he’d waited until that evening to come forward.

Nazir smiled and straightened himself back into the khumar that she knew. “There are certain privileges to not knowing that makes life worth living, Djari,” he said, “that, and if I tell you everything you will never learn.”

It was an expected answer really. Nazir had wanted her to make the decision on her own. With their mother gone and her father busy with his duties as kha’a, Nazir had since taken on the role of a parent, teaching her things he’d been taught, and listening to her complaints and tantrums. In many ways he was the oldest eighteen year-old on the peninsula. She guessed that came with being an oracle. He knew too many things people didn’t, things that would require him to deal with before they’d happened. Once she’d asked him how it felt when the visions came to him, and he had replied, _“like having lived your whole life by the age of ten.”_ She had stopped thinking of it as a privilege after that.

The torches had all been put out by the time she reached the stable. They’d stopped lighting fires at night for years now to lessen the chance of giving away their location. All their warriors had been trained to fight just as well in the dark as they would in broad daylight, and fires were lit only on exceptionally cold nights with an extra set of guards placed far enough from the camps to give them time to immobilize or escape in the case of a surprise attack. Raids had become more frequent — and successful — since salar Muradi had taken over the Salasar, and his intention to conquer the White Desert where his predecessors had failed for hundreds of years had been widely known even before he’d taken his father’s throne. It had also been under his command that her mother’s caravan was attacked. Djari had never wanted anyone dead with such a clear conscience as she wanted to see him die.

Stepping halfheartedly towards the stable, she paused at the entrance for her eyes to adjust to its darker interior. _A poor excuse_ , she thought as she continued to linger unnecessarily by the door. It wasn’t that difficult for her to move around in the dark. For years she’d been coming out to check on her horses during the night, sometimes even slept in one of the stalls with them. This was her refuge, her sanctuary, the only place where she could be just a girl again. It was only here that she could sit or stand the way she wanted, roll on a pile of hay, or say what was really on her mind. Horses were great listeners, in the way that no girls or boys at camp who’d always seemed to tiptoe around her could ever come close.

From the corner of her eye she saw something move at the far end of the stable. Someone must have forgotten to tie up one of the gates again. The last time that had happened they’d spent the whole day looking for the missing colt. She bent down to pick up the rock that had been keeping the door ajar, hoping to close it before the horse could escape. The shadow moved again, and this time she could see it more clearly. Whatever she had seen in there was no horse. Something, no, someone, was inside Lady’s stall.  

Instinctively, her hand moved to unsling her bow. It paused in midair following the realization that she would likely not be able to draw an arrow out of the quiver without being heard. From the limited training she’d had in these things, Djari at least knew an element of surprise was what she needed. Reluctantly, she chose instead the dagger at her waist. The choice was giving her neither comfort nor confidence for what she was about to do. Her training with blades and short-range weapons had been extremely limited, while stalking was a lesson that had been entirely omitted from her schedules. It was a good thing she’d made Nazir teach her that, among other skills she had not been permitted to learn. In exchange for doing a few chores for him, of course. He was a doting brother, but he would never let her believe she could have anything without working for it.

Tightening the grip on her dagger, Djari prayed that she remembered all her training. She could have used more, and trained more for the situation at hand. Then again, by standard protocol she should be calling for help, not taking matters into her own hands as she was about to do, but it was her horse in that stall, and the damage could have already been done by the time help came.

 _Father is going to kill me for this_ , the thought had crossed her mind the moment she’d drawn her blade. It didn’t occur to her, however, to do anything about that realization. ‘ _It’s called stupidity,’_ Mamuz, her sword master had always concluded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as if trying to find a cure to an incurable disease whenever she’d done this sort of thing despite knowing the consequence.  

It wasn’t until she’d gotten half way down the aisle that Djari realized the extent of that particular disease she was suffering from. The figure sitting inside Lady’s stall was wearing a black robe with gold trimmings. Only Rashais and their mercenaries wore such colors. Whichever of the two this intruder would turn out to be, it was a job for a White Warrior, not a thirteen-year old girl in training, and especially not a bharavi who could put the entire camp in danger if she were to be taken hostage. _This is beyond stupid,_ Djari cursed herself repeatedly in the back of her mind. But by then she had come too close to turn back without risking capture. She could maybe outrun girls and boys her size, not a trained warrior. There was no other alternative, as far as she was concerned.

She drew a breath and closed in on him.  The intruder was now cradling Lady in his arms, still seemingly unaware of her presence. Her mother’s mare looked unexpectedly calm in his embrace, and she had to remind herself that even the most crooked, vicious man in the desert treasured horses. It made no difference if he seemed kind to her mare. He would kill her before a horse, if it ever came down to that. Everyone would.

“Step away from her. Now,” she said, pressing the tip of her dagger on the back of his neck, angling it the way Mamuz had taught her that would mean a swift and clean kill. If she had the spot right, of course. That particular lesson she’d had only once, and briefly at most.

He stiffened at the touch of her blade, and Djari knew then that she had done it correctly. “Turn around and state your business.” She’d heard a white warrior say that once, and was quite pleased with the way she’d sounded. 

Slowly, he raised both hands in the air. The movement had been careful and calculated, with no trace of panic or nervousness that she could see. He turned to her slowly, like someone who’d known the protocols of being held at sword point all his life. It wasn’t good news for her. Only an experienced soldier or a seasoned warrior knew these things.

 _Not a boy._  

He could not be much older than she was, judging from the way he looked. She remembered vividly how much her brother’s body had changed in the past few years, how fast he’d gone from a small, skinny boy into a young man almost as large and thick as their father. Almost.

“I’m only looking for shelter,” he told her, his voice too irritatingly steady for someone with a blade at his throat. From behind the long, disorderly web of hair, a pair of intense, bluish grey eyes looked at her from head to toe in a subtle yet evident surprise, judging and measuring both her size and age. It pissed her off to no ends when people did that. 

Djari pressed the dagger harder under his chin and returned the same scrutinizing gaze. The boy was no Rashai or mercenary, now that she could see him more clearly. Those raiders came from the east, and usually had black hair, dark, deep-set eyes and paler skin. The boy’s hair had been golden brown at best, and those ghostly grey eyes might very well be lighter than hers. If that wasn’t enough, his hard, prominent cheekbones and deep honeyed-skin matching her own made it more than obvious. The boy was textbook Shakshi to the tips of his fingers, the kind they called a pureblood, like Nadim and Zozi, whose status in the khagan were always considered next to her own or Nazir. What was a boy with a superior bloodline doing in a Rashai robe and creeping about her stable at night was a question that needed answered immediately.

“You’re one of us,” she said, more as a confirmation of her own judgement than as a question.  

“I am,” he responded with a slight raise of his chin, exposing himself defiantly to the weapon in her hand.

 _Shakshi to the tips of his fingers_ , Djari thought. But then again, so was she. “Then you would also know that we give shelter and food to our own travelers,” she said, digging deeper with the tip of her blade, drawing blood. “Only thieves and murderers creep around unannounced. I will ask again. What is your business here?”

The boy, betraying no emotions whatsoever to the fact that she’d already cut him, gave no indication to explain himself. He stood in silence, jaws tight and feet planted firmly on the ground, staring back at her. 

 _Intimidation is half the fight_ , Mamuz had said. There seemed to be, however, nothing she could do to intimidate this boy, Djari realized when she decided to take a step forward. He remained precisely where he was, rock solid and back straight as an arrow, as if she hadn’t placed herself at a highly convenient distance to slit his throat.

“We don’t have to do this. I will be gone in the morning.” The tone had been smooth, spoken like an adult to a small child, if a little cautious. He had expected her to turn a blind eye to avoid a fight. A fight that she was sure to lose. 

A grave mistake, and one she would make sure he never forgot. 

“You are addressing a bharavi of Visarya and daughter of the kha’a.” Djari drew herself up as tall as she could, despite the fact that he was a head taller than she was. She didn’t like being regarded as a girl, and hated it even more when she was made to feel small and harmless. “You have broken our law and will be brought to trial in the morning. Guards!” She yelled at the top of her lungs. They would be here soon, and then there would be no place for him to run. She might have been willing to overlook the intrusion given a good enough reason, but she had never been one to easily forgive such an attack on her pride, willingly or not.

She had expected him to panic or at least shown some reaction resembling that. Instead she saw him shut his eyes for a moment, drawing a long breath and releasing it slowly as if to ready himself for a fight. He _had_ been prepared for this, she realized, just perhaps wished he didn’t have to. 

 _Not out of fear,_ that much she was certain, seeing the look in those eyes when he opened them again. They gleamed dangerously now and were almost white in the dark, like an animal that had been provoked to fight and kill for survival. Instinctively, she gripped harder on the hilt of her blade and repositioned herself for defense. He was considerably larger and taller than she was, but she had been the one holding a weapon, hadn’t she? That would give her an advantage, wouldn’t it?

It would have, had she been trained — or taught — well enough to notice and anticipate the slight shift of his weight and the way he angled back his shoulder to accommodate a blow on her wrist with his left arm. The dagger, struck clean out of her hand, flew so far across the room that she couldn’t tell where it landed. He dropped quickly as she turned to look, and knocked her to the ground with an elbow on the left side of her ribs. 

Still doubling over from the pain, Djari saw him open the gate to the opposite stall and climbed onto a horse. _Not Springer,_ she thought as she scrambled quickly to her feet and ran over to block the escape. This was her brother’s stallion, a pure blood Vilarian horse bearing the symbol of the khumar. To have him stolen, on her watch no less, was an unspeakable disgrace to the khagan. She’d die before she let that happen. 

She could have died, had she been any slower around horses. But years of being around them had made her drop just in time to the ground when Springer leapt out of the stall and missed her head by a hair. Rolling off the floor, Djari cursed herself repeatedly for that decision. How many suicidal things could she possibly have done on a single night? She should have run to the door and closed the main gate, but by the time she’d thought of this and managed to get back on her feet, the boy and her brother’s horse had already made it out of the stable.

Through the windows, she could hear the sound of the guards heading towards her. It was too late. She knew this. She knew all the horses better than any stable boy at camp. Springer had been the fastest of them all, and by far. They would never make it in time to even catch a glimpse of the boy galloping at full speed on their best horse, especially with that much of a head start.  

She paused for a few breaths, trying to push back the panic that was nipping at her heels and made her decision quickly. To her right was Winter, standing alert and ready, if a little agitated at the commotion. The young stallion they’d acquired a few months ago liked to race Springer, and hated the sight of the older horse in front of him. He was the best chance she had, and would have to do.

Securing the bow and quiver snugly on her shoulder, she leapt onto Winter and kicked him into a full gallop. By the time she was out the door, the boy had gained at least a hundred and fifty paces ahead of her. She followed at full speed, calculating the paces between them as she tried to close in on him. Ahead of them was the entrance to the Djamahari mountain range, a maze of narrow passages and stone caves impossible to navigate at night. On the other side of that was Kamara khagan’s territory where they could not enter without starting an internal war.  She would lose him — the horse to be precise — by one way or another at the speed he was riding, unless she could do something about it.

 _A hundred and ten paces… no, twenty,_ Djari corrected herself. It was still too far. But at that point she could already hear Winter’s breaths growing heavy. She had been riding him at killing speed, and knew that he wouldn’t last much longer at such a pace. _One hundred and ten._ It would have to do.

Letting go of the mane she had been holding, Djari shifted her weight to steer Winter with her knees. Drawing herself up as straight as possible on his bareback, she unslung the bow from her shoulder and reached for an arrow, nocking it to her bow while she waited for the right moment. _One hundred paces._ She took a breath, held it, and listened for the sound of Winter’s hooves striking the ground once more before they all lifted in the air. 

 _Now_. She let go of the string and watched her arrow fly towards the target. This would be her first kill, Djari thought, if it struck him where she wanted and not her brother’s horse. She would never forgive herself if it hit the horse.

Despite her lack of training in close combat, she had been shooting since she was four. No one at camp could land an arrow as precisely as she could, no one had ever come close for the past three years. Even then, a hundred paces and above wasn’t something she could always accomplish on horseback, especially without a saddle, at night, and on a moving target no less. But experience had granted her the ability to tell if her arrow would fly true from the moment she loosed it, and that night she knew, for a fact, that she hadn’t miss.

 


	2. A Leap of Faith

He had time to look behind him just before the arrow struck. The girl who had seemed so harmlessly small and thin in the stable was no longer what he’d thought she was. She was riding at his heels the way no girl should be able to ride on an unsaddled horse three times her size. The moment she drew forth her bow and straightened her spine on top of the stallion was when he came to realize he would never make it to the Djamahari.

And he didn’t. Make it to the Djamahari. The arrow, despite the ridiculous distance between them, struck him from behind at the deadliest spot as if she’d handpicked and driven it in by hand at close range. Had it gone through the way it should, it would have pierced his heart right in the middle and came out cleanly on the other side. By sheer luck, or fate, or whatever it was that had been keeping him alive this long, it didn’t, and he fell off the horse with an arrow half way in his back, still breathing and alive if only for a short while longer.

The next thing he saw was her standing over him with another arrow already nocked to her deadly bow. She looked at him and the embedded arrow, then frowned as if she’d missed her target. From her expression, she seemed to be contemplating whether to shoot him the second time or wait for the dozen or so guards who were now riding towards them to do the job. Then the stallion he’d stolen trotted back to her, and she snapped back to her senses, deciding to tend to him first. 

He could have said something then that might have given her the urge to finish him where he was, knowing the consequences of being captured and brought to trial. For some reasons he didn’t, and would always wonder from time to time afterwards, if that had been the right decision or the biggest mistake of his life. 

They took him back to camp instead of killing him on the spot. She rode in the front of the procession, surrounded by five White Warriors who looked like they were guarding the biggest pile of gold going through the most dangerous terrain. Bharavis were becoming rarer and rarer even out here, deep inside the White Desert itself. And he’d struck her, Hasheem realized, on top of everything else. The punishment for that, if he had to guess, would probably be close to being skinned alive and left to die on a spike. He doubted she would have a problem telling them everything that had happened, judging from the lack of hesitation when she’d fired the arrow that was meant to kill him where he was. She hadn’t looked back at him since, not even once on the ride back.

He was thrown into a tent, bound hands and feet to a post with the arrow still sticking out of his back. At least it was warmer inside, he thought, and they’d been kind enough to give him a blanket. Then again they wouldn’t want him to die before the trial in the morning. Desert people, Black or White, hung on to their codes and honor more seriously than their lives, or so he’d been told. In that context, he was beginning to wish the arrow would kill him before the night was over — before they had a chance to finish him by other means. But they would have thought of that, too, wouldn’t they?

Apparently, they had thought of it, because some time later two women came in with a pot of clean water and a generous length of cloth for bandage. They settled down the tools, started a small fire and then left without a word spoken. At first he’d thought that they’d forgotten something, but when the tent flap opened again, he realized that it was someone else who was coming to tend to his wound.

The girl who’d shot him, the young bharavi of Visarya, didn’t look pleased that she had to do the job. She had changed into a form-fitting white gown of a healer, bound at the wrists to keep the sleeves from getting in the way. Her hair, silvery white like all bharavis, had been tightly braided and gathered away from her face. He could see now, more clearly in the light made by the small fire in the tent, the otherworldly yellow shade of her eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a bharavi — the first had been a captive back in Rasharwi — but it was the first time he’d seen one up close. She was pretty, like most Shakshi girls and boys tend to be, but there was a hardness to her that made one appreciate her beauty the same way one might admire a well-made, carefully sharpened sword rather than a flower or an expensive jewelry. Then again, no person in their right mind would equate anyone who could shoot that way, girl or boy, with something so delicate.

She looked at him from where she was standing, and frowned upon the realization that his arms had been tied behind his back in the way that made it impossible for her to tend to his wound.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to cut me lose if you’re here to remove the arrow,” he told her. 

She looked hesitatingly over her shoulder towards the door where the guards would have been standing. There were others outside who could do this for her, of course, which would have been more appropriate and safer considering what he was, but he would much prefer to not be handled by those White Warriors right now if he could do something about it. 

He said, “I could take that knife strapped to the inside of your arm and hold you hostage.” He had to admit the idea was rather tempting, knowing how far they would go to protect a bharavi. “But I wouldn’t live past tomorrow with this wound. Believe me, I’m not stupid enough to try.” At least not while the arrow was still sticking out of his back.

She looked at her left arm and then at him, her eyes narrowed sharply. They were truly beautiful, if in an unsettling way. “You’ll be dead before you take ten steps from from this tent,” she snapped before walking over to sit down behind him. “There are five armed guards outside to shoot you down from every direction if you try. Don’t move.” She took the blade from her sleeve and began to cut free the rope around his wrists. She knew how to use it, he could tell from how quickly the bond had come off. Hasheem thought then of the girls he knew in Rasharwi, how most of them wouldn’t even be allowed to carry a weapon — or learn to ride bareback for that matter — and decided he would have to stop regarding her as one or be content with dying young.

He was, after all, in Shakshi territory now — a region known first and foremost for its harsh environment and hard people who were made even harder by the constant threats from the Salasar. You couldn’t afford to be vulnerable here and hoped to survive even if you were ten. People died out here everyday for not carrying enough water, for having ventured too far, over starvation. For wearing the wrong robe at night.

Hasheem wondered if he could have survived, having forgotten almost everything about his life in the desert. Then he remembered where he’d come from. And where he’d come from death, by any mean, would have been considered a better alternative. He had survived that, hadn’t he? In a way it had been a foolish thought. The problem at hand wasn’t really surviving the desert, it was surviving its people and their notoriously unforgiving code of conduct.

Which brought him to the dilemma he was facing now. He asked, “How many laws did I break?”

She had been trying to cut his robe open to get the the wound. Her hands paused for a moment at the question, as if she’d needed time to count. It wasn’t a good sign. “Three,” she said.

Hasheem took a breath and exhaled heavily. I am not going to die well. “And the punishment for those?”

She swallowed. A weight there. “Depending on the motive, you may be lashed or have your toes removed for intrusion. For stealing your hand would be cut off, but since it was a horse it would likely be your arm. For attacking a bharavi,” she stopped for a moment, "it’s decapitation.”

“In that order?”

She nodded. “In that order.”

Better than being skinned alive and left to die on a spike, Hasheem thought. “I suppose there’s no chance you might be willing to keep that last bit between us?” Unlikely, but it was worth a try. He had come to a decision by then that the girl sitting behind him may have had the kind of discipline more difficult to move than a rock with ten men on it.

“I can also have your tongue removed for suggesting that I lie.”

A rock with ten men on it, Hasheem thought. Perhaps even twenty. “You might want to write that down,” he said sardonically. “Or they might forget to remove something tomorrow.” The list, truly, was getting pretty long and appeared to be growing by the minute.

“They woulnd’t,” she replied, a little reluctantly now. “It would be me who will have to remove them tomorrow.”

Now, that he hadn’t anticipated. “Because I struck you?”

“Because I shot you,” she said as-a-matter-of-factly. “You are now my prisoner, my responsibility to execute. That is the custom.”

A highly fucked up custom, Hasheem thought. Had to restrain himself from saying it, or she might find yet another body part of him to be removed tomorrow. In all fairness, he was certain there had to be some kind of an age limit on these things that would not result in having a little girl hack off limbs and heads of prisoners. But considering her discipline so far, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that she might actually find it offending to be excused from from such a task because of her age. It probably wasn’t usual for a girl that young to be taking prisoners in any case. In fact, that she had tried to pursue him at all was not normal in any sense of the word. “And you have not done this before, have you?”

The silence that ensued was, unexpectedly, followed by what he understood to be a heavy sigh. “No,” she admitted. An honesty there that he could admire. “I wouldn’t have to if you had died,” she added, bitterly this time.

It would have solved all kinds of problems, yes, on both her part and his. He’d never thought his death could be so useful. “Believe me,” he said in a tone that was more apologetic than he should have sounded given the fact that they were discussing the very subject of his death, or rather the manner of it. “I’m beginning to regret that very much right now.” 

In truth, it would have been merciful, poetic even, to have been shot to death with an arrow to the heart by a bharavi from the back of a beautiful white Vilarian horse, if only it had gone through the way it should. By some divine intervention, it hadn’t, though according to her, the fault seemed to have been his. “It was a good shot, by the way,” he had to admit. A good shot was a good shot, whether or not you were the target, and a compliment always worked in softening people, didn’t it?

It didn’t. Not on her. 

“It was a perfect shot,” she snapped offensively, as if he’d just accused her of missing a target. “You should have been dead.”

She had to be, Hasheem realized, the most difficult person he’d ever met — or would ever meet considering that he was likely to be killed tomorrow. For years he’d been trained —they all had where he grew up — to offer compliments, to entertain, to give pleasure (or to hide its absence.) They were among the many skills that had been deemed a necessity to survive in the world he’d lived in, and Hasheem had been one to excel at it, to the point that it had allowed him to live well above his station. The girl, small and fourteen at best if he had to guess, had more conviction and pride in her than some men twice her size and thrice her age that he’d not been able to break. Under the circumstance, he shouldn’t have found any of this amusing or astonishing as he did. But he was both amused and astonished in the presence of this young bharavi, and he was beginning to regret not having a chance to learn more. “Forgive me,” he said, trying not to smile too widely. “I did not mean to offend. For what it’s worth, you will have another chance tomorrow.”

To his surprise, she didn’t respond for a time. He wondered what her expression would be, sitting behind him at that moment, what she would look like if her color were high, and found himself unreasonably agitated at the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see any of it. 

“You’re not afraid,” she said at length. It sounded more like an observation than a question.

I’m done being afraid, he wanted to say, but it would require an explanation and she might have found it offending. There was, apparently, an unlimited number of ways to offend this girl, and he was acutely aware of the possibility of her using a blunt blade on purpose to cut off his limbs tomorrow. “Is it not considered an honor to be killed by a bharavi?” She would like that, wouldn’t she?

Again, she did not. “There is no honor in death,” she replied. Bitterness there. Perhaps also scars. “It’s useless, and wasteful.”

There were questions he wanted to ask, but it wasn’t the right time. There might never be a right time, Hasheem reminded himself. He had never really given thought about dying, had never feared it, not in the way others did. When there wasn’t much left to lose or to be living for — and for him there hadn’t been any for some time — one didn’t find enough value in it to regret the ending of life no matter how soon it was. He had survived so far simply because he had, somehow, always been given a choice, and for some reasons still unknown to him he’d always chosen to live. It had never been clear to him why, but it had never been the fear of pain or of losing life, that much he knew.

The good thing about all this was, that he wasn’t about to be given a choice now. Not today, or tomorrow. There was comfort to be found in that, if one had been through what he had. This time there would be no choice of life for the price of chains and shackles, or obedience. Or pride. Desert dwellers didn’t keep prisoners to become extra mouths to feed. They would have him killed tomorrow, one way or another. He only wished it would be quick and relatively painless, but he also knew even that might never happen. Life didn’t always turn out the way you wanted. It just didn’t work that way.

There was a pause from her when all layers of fabric had been stripped away from his back. He’d been expecting this for some time. She would be looking at the bandage that had been wrapped over the burn wound on the back of his shoulder, would ask him questions and expected him to answer when she saw what was underneath.

Feeling the bandage being removed, he wondered if the stories — the lies — he had been prepared to tell even mattered at that point. His penalty was already death, whether or not she believed him.

“How,” she asked reluctantly, and after some time, “did you get this burn?”

‘Give them a good story,’ Dee had said. It wasn’t difficult for him to lie. He had survived this long with a lot more than lying. But that night he simply didn’t want to. For all the honesty and directness she had shown him, it just didn’t feel right. Especially not when it would make no difference. “What is your name?” He asked. He didn’t usually do this. Knowing someone’s name, especially those that would hurt, you gave a permanent meaning to things. It was an invitation for revenge, and vengeance had always been something he avoided. Who were his enemies? Who must he kill? The soldiers that attacked his home? The prison guards that beat him up almost daily? The generals at Sabha who did...things to him? The slave traders? His clients? Or salar Muradi himself? There had been too many to name, and some had already been dead a long time ago and not by his hands. How, then, did one settle such an account? What would be the point of it when what he had lost had been lost and were never to be replaced?

It must have been inappropriate for her, being asked that way. But she gave it a thought for a moment and decided to reply, “Djari.”

“Djari.” It was a pretty name. Every man should know the name of the person who would be taking his life, shouldn’t he? “Don’t ask your victims too many questions if you have to kill,” he told her. Knowing complicated things when you had to end a life. Walking away from a body of a man who’d hurt you was easy, knowing he had been a father, a son, or lover, was not. This was his gift to her, if he was to be her first kill. One good deed before death seemed like a good idea, even though it probably wasn’t enough to save his soul.

She stilled for a while. No retorts or anger this time over the fact that he’d tried to teach her things. “You have done this,” she asked.

“I have,” he replied and had wanted to leave it at that. 

“How many times?”

How many times had he killed? Ten? Twenty? Or had there been more? You didn’t count when you had to fight for your life. He thought for the first time of the deaths he’d caused in the past five years. The soldiers who’d raided his khagan. The inmates who’d attacked him at Sabha. People Dee had wanted dead. The officer just two nights before, and the city guards that had pursued him afterwards. How many times? She’d asked, as if he would have been proud to name the number, or considered it some kind of an achievement. The Rashais did that, those raiders did. Soldiers told tales of warriors they’d kill, villages they’d burn, girls and boys they’d raped and slain afterwards. And the crowd had liked it. Stories to wet their appetite before dinner, to entertain at campfires. “Do not,” he snapped at her before he could stop himself, “mistake me for the scums and murderers who count their dead.”

The hands that had been busy with removing the bandage paused for a moment. He heard her draw a long breath and held it for a time. “Then what are you?” She asked icily, obviously not pleased with the tone he’d just used. “If not a scum or a murderer? What were you doing in our stable?”

The sudden display of hostility didn’t surprise him. He had tried to chastise a bharavi, the equivalent of a princess in the White Desert, who he’d also discovered to be proud to a fault. It just so happened, that when it came to the issue of pride, he was also notorious for being just as bad. “Trying to survive,” he replied, for the first time with spite in his tone. That was, in reality, his only crime done around here, or anywhere. 

“Would you still try, given a choice?” A smooth, silvery voice sounded from the doorway. It had been spoken by a young man not much older than he was who appeared to have materialized out of thin air. The man, Hasheem thought with some anger stirring within him, may have been standing there for some time listening to their conversation. He was tall, lean and elegant, almost to the point of looking delicate, and yet there was an undeniable air of authority about him that had filled the room the moment he’d allowed himself to be noticed. 

Hasheem had come to know this man by experience, and had been expecting him to appear at some point. There had been one like him everywhere in his life. In the dungeon, the brothel, the slave quarter, or one of Dee’s hidden chambers. Everywhere he went his life would always return to this, and he could almost laugh at how naive he was, to have believed that this time it would be different. That he wouldn’t be given a choice by someone who wanted something from him. There was always someone who wanted something from him. 

“And you are the man who would give me that choice, I presume?” He asked in his most sardonic tone. It was about to begin again, the games, the punishment, the reward. The chains around his wrists and ankles. He’d known this dance for a long time. A price would be named soon.

The man crossed over in three smooth, flawless strides and stopped in front of him, looking down from his considerable height. He was wearing a Zikh, the signature white robe given to the most elite class of Shakshi warriors, and had kept the hood on in the way that he could see only a part of his face. The way Djari had fallen into complete silence told him that this man, whoever he was, outranked her in more ways than one. There were only a handful of people who would outrank a bharavi in the White Desert, as far as he knew.

“That depends,” he said with a smile as if from an adult to a child.

“On what?”

“How willing you are to consider my proposal.” 

“A proposal,” Hasheem allowed himself to sneer at the irony of things as he responded. He hated being right sometimes. “And what,” he said icily, “would you have me do, my lord? Clean your stable, kill your competition, or fuck your guests? I happen to be highly proficient in all three.”

The arrow in his back was suddenly snapped in half, and Hasheem, nearly yelping at the pain, looked promptly over his shoulder.

“You are in the presence of the khumar of Visarya,” Djari said with nothing less than murder in her eyes. “You will mind your manner or I will add your tongue to the list of things to remove tomorrow.”

It would explain a lot of things, Hasheem realized, looking at the young man who was standing calmly over him. This was the khumar, heir to the highest ruling figure of the tribe, the future kha’a of the khagan. He may not be the most powerful man on that strip of the desert, but he was the next in line, bestowed, apparently, with enough authority to change and corrupt the most notoriously strict laws in the peninsula. A proposal, Hasheem wanted to laugh at that. It would seem that there was always a price for everything, even among the most highly disciplined, code-abiding people on earth. There are no monsters bigger than the worst of men, Dee had said. There really weren’t. The world was the same, everywhere, whichever side of the desert you were on. “Good,” he said spitefully, ignoring the throbbing pain behind his shoulder. “I was beginning to wonder who I have to fuck to get out of here.”

Behind him, Djari took hold of whatever was left of the arrow shaft and twisted. It took everything he had to not growl at the pain. He didn’t have to turn around to know those fiery yellow eyes would be attempting to burn a hole in his back right about then. And if her immovable duty or discipline towards her khumar hadn’t been enough to make her want to shoot him again for his blatant display of insubordination, the love and respect she seemed to harbor for this man, whatever he was to her, would certainly do it. And that, for some reasons, was pissing him off more than anything else.

“My sister has a temper, and for that I apologize,” the khumar said as he gestured something to Djari, who then obediently removed her hand from the arrow. “I will, however, advise against the use of such words and tone with the kha’a. There are many who had lost their tongues for less.”

He didn’t doubt it, but he was way past giving a damn about losing limbs especially when death was already at his doorstep. “Assuming that I choose to live past tomorrow,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his tone. It was going to be his choice, he would make that clear. There was, in a way, no price he hadn’t already paid for survival, but he was far from ready to put himself in chains again, visible ones or not, not out here, and not by people whose blood he shared. 

The khumar smiled. He could see the resemblance between the two of them now, looking more closely. They had the same yellow eyes, the similar straight nose, and the high, well-defined cheekbones. There was a special meaning to that, something about a man who shared the same characteristics of a bharavi that he’d decided to put aside. He was about to die. It didn’t seem like something he needed to know.

“Assuming that you are what I think you are. I believe that you will like my proposal,” said the khumar with the same presumptuous, silky-smooth voice that had been getting on his nerves since the man had entered the room. He sounded like he knew things you didn’t, and was certain of it in ways that no one should have the right to be.

But if there had been one thing Hasheem hated more than being offered these alternatives, it was being considered a foregone conclusion. Perhaps also because he’d always found himself choosing the alternative, no matter how inconceivable they’d been. When you still believed in a better life, in freedom, you held on to life, despite all its terrors. He wasn’t sure he believed now. If there was no freedom to be found even out here among the proud, nomadic people of the White Desert, there would be none in the world. “You don’t know me,” he snapped irritatingly.

The gentle, seemingly harmless smile the young khumar had been wearing turned swiftly into something strangely disturbing the moment Hasheem had finished the sentence. “Don’t I?” asked the khumar in a slightly cooler tone than before.

The next kha’a of Visarya took two measured steps forward to stand before him, looking down from an imposing height with a calmness that stilled the room. Sure, steady hands moved slowly to push back the hood from his head, revealing the long, near-silver hair matching that of Djari. 

“You lost your family when you were ten,” he began in an unanimated tone, as if reciting from a text or a scroll. “It happened on a moonless night. They came with fire, in the dark, burning first the eastern side of the camp. Your entire khagan was destroyed, burned to the ground as you watched. I think,” he said, leaning closer a if to read something that had been written clearly on his face, “that is why you hadn’t tried to return to the desert ever since. Or am I wrong?”

They had come with fire, with torches burning wildly on horseback. He had watched the tents go up in flame, one by one, like a giant snake creeping its way across the valley. The sky had been lit up like a big bonfire as the main cavalry charged in. Then the deafening screams of horses and people had followed as they began to slaughter the men and round up the women and children. They fought — the White Warriors and the grey-clad ones in training — to the last man. He never saw what had happened to his family, hadn’t had a chance to. He just knew if they hadn’t been captured, they’d be on that pile of dead bodies that had all been burned to ashes that night.

It had been among the memories that he’d managed to push to the furthest corner of his mind, only to be dragged back to life by this man — this stranger — who seemed to know every single detail from start to finish. He could hear himself breathing heavily as he listened to the bone-chilling accuracy of those words, could feel the pain returning with the smell of burning flesh that had seemed to accompany it whenever those images resurfaced. It was not possible, not even imaginable, that anyone could have known these things. Those who did had all died or still resided in the dungeons of Rasharwi.

The khumar lowered himself to the ground and was now staring levelly at him. There was light in his unsettling yellow eyes that seemed to be be able to look past his skin and straight to his memory, his mind. The thought of what they had seen, what they were able to see, made his skin crawl in the way he hadn’t felt for a long time.

“You killed a man, not too long ago,” he continued, his eyes were glowing like a burning candle now. They seemed to Hasheem something unnatural and not of this world. “That’s why they’re hunting you. Why you’re on a run. That burn,” he glanced quickly at Djari, “was no accident.”

He opened his mouth to speak, and found that he couldn’t. Long, elegant fingers reached past his hair to cradle his head from behind, holding him in place. The khumar leaned forward, his lips brushing the side of his ear, and whispered in a tone that made every hair on his body stand on end, “I know what you have done, what you had to do to survive. I’ve seen the faces of the men you’ve killed, and those you wanted to see dead. Have I said enough, or would you like me to go on?”

If there had been a part of him that thought the khumar was harmless in any way, it was gone as swiftly as the way a crippling fear had flooded him during their brief conversation. This was someone who knew all his secrets, his past, his every crime ever committed. There was nowhere and nothing he could hide from this man. Hasheem knew what he was, and should have known it the moment he’d seen that silver hair. “You’re an oracle.” His voice was trembling now, despite all his efforts to hide the fact that he’d just been frightened out of his wits. He hadn’t felt like this since he’d been ten.

“The only one you will ever see, outside of Citara,” he said. The khumar was now sitting back, cross-legged looking at him as if nothing at all had happened, like his whole life had not just been revealed by a perfect stranger.

Hasheem realized then, why Djari had been so protective of her brother, so respectful of him. No one had seen or heard of an oracle since the Great Hunt that had begun more than a decade ago. Salar Muradi had ordered an extensive search for them, and had paid heavily for any information that would lead to their capture. To everyone’s understanding, oracles, pureblood or imposters, had already been butchered to the point of extinction, and Hasheem, having been caught in the middle of that same hunt that had killed his family, had never truly understood the need for it until now. The late oracle of his khagan, a pureblood with blue eyes and light copper hair, had been able to see the arrival of a storm or perhaps an unseasonal rain. The man sitting in front of him was something else. This was a trueblood oracle whose visions and foresights could bring down the Salasar, the kind that had forced salar Muradi to order a wholesale slaughter of the White Desert to get rid of.

Shocking as it was, the revelation had also told him something else with regards to his own situation. “I’m never going to leave here alive, am I?” It was too much of a risk, now that he knew what he knew. Whatever alternative the man had been meaning to offer him, it did not include the possibility of leaving this khagan.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied as-a-matter-of-factly.

“And the alternative?”

“You can stay,” he replied, “and become a part of this khagan.”

“I see.” He allowed himself to smile a little too widely this time. There was only one way he could stay that he’d thought wasn’t a possibility among the khagans. “As your prisoner, or your slave, may I ask?” How many times could one possibly jump from one shackle to the next in the pursuit of freedom before eventually finding it — if one were to do so at all?

The same gentle smile returned, though this time with a hint of something else that hadn’t been there before. Uncertainty, or guilt, or even pity, he couldn’t be sure. “As Djari’s sworn sword and blood. If she will take you.”

Behind him, Hasheem could feel her stiffen suddenly. He couldn’t blame her. It had been equally difficult to stop his mouth from gaping open at those words. 

“My sworn sword and blood?” She repeated. 

“If you will take him,” said the khumar. The coolness in his voice disappeared when he spoke to his sister, Hasheem noticed. “He is your prisoner, Djari, you can let him die, or you can speak for him. It is a choice you have to make.” He was not smiling now. Instead he’d put on the face of a parent who was about to make a difficult decision for his child. He didn’t know much about being someone’s sworn sword and blood beyond what those words might imply. But whatever it all meant, to her especially, was serious and not without heavy consequences.

She grew quiet for a time, considering her options, despite the absurdity of it all. When she spoke again, it was with unmistakable conviction in her tone. “You trust him, to be my sworn sword and blood? Is this what you have seen in your vision, Nazir?” 

She would have to consider it, of course, Hasheem realized. This was, after all, a suggestion not only from her khumar or her brother, but also a trueblood oracle.

Nazir khumar shook his head and smiled almost apologetically. There was much love between the two of them that was visible for anyone to see, and neither had tried to hide it. “I see nothing beyond this point, Djari,” he told her with the calmness of a parent to a child. “I am only a messenger. I don’t know if he was meant to live or die, or why the gods have sent him to us. All I know is what you decide today will shape the fate of the entire peninsula. It is your judgement that I trust, as the one who was born to bring an end to the war.”

To bring an end to the war, Hasheem found himself holding his breath at the revelation. These words, spoken by a trueblood oracle could be considered a prophecy, and he, after all this time, had been sitting in the same tent as the girl who would bring it all to an end — the raids, the bloodshed, the war that had been going on for hundreds of years. And his life had been tied into it, according to the khumar. A few minutes ago he might have dismissed it as folly, but how was he supposed dismiss anything this man had to say, having heard what he had heard about his own past, having seen what he could do?

“And if I choose wrong?” Djari asked with uncertainty in her voice, for the first time.

“Then it is meant to be,” replied Nazir khumar. “Perhaps we are meant to lose the war or become a part of the Salasar. Perhaps there are other ways to find peace. I don’t know. But there are always signs everywhere and all around us. If you look for them, you may see the will of Ravi.”

Had there been signs? Hasheem wondered. Was there a pattern, a coincidence, that had led him to this point in his life? He’d never considered himself to be pious. When one had been through what he had, the promise of prayers being answered or the hope for some kind of divine intervention seemed like a joke. But sitting there in front of an oracle, knowing what he knew now, it was difficult to not question himself whether there had been a purpose to all this, if everything, every suffering he’d suffered, had simply been a part of a grander design.

‘Go west,’ Dee had said, for a reason he’d refused to share just before he’d left the city. It had slipped his mind, that the small gift of foresight had always been one of Dee’s many hidden abilities. Why, he’d often wondered, had he been singled out from the other slaves, to be bought and trained by possibly the most capable man in Rasharwi? How was it possible that he’d survived to this day, given what he’d been through? “Why,” he said, “am I not dead?”

The tent fell into complete silence. Nazir khumar looked past him to Djari, waiting for an answer. She took a breath, and, without a word, plunged the tip of her blade into the arrow wound and began to cut it open. His mind went blank for a moment as the sudden, unexpected jolt of pain took over all his senses. He could have used a warning, or at least a gentler hand, but she seemed to be concentrating on digging the arrow out quickly rather than digging it out safely.

The arrowhead came off, miraculously, with him still alive and breathing. After a moment of pause, Djari rose abruptly without an explanation and strode to where she’d left her belongings. She picked up her quiver and emptied it on the floor between him and Nazir. The arrows, beautifully crafted and identical, had all been tipped with tiny, gleaming black stones.

Obsidian, Hasheem thought. He knew that stone, could recognize it from anywhere. The iconic Black Tower in Rasharwi was comprised almost entirely of it. ‘You should have died,’ she had said. Now he understood why. Obsidian broke sharper than any other material could have been forged or sharpened by hand. These arrowheads could penetrate two men and still come out clean on the other side. 

It had barely gone halfway through him.

“This is bone,” she said, holding up a white arrow point still covered with his blood. “Somebody put a bone arrow in my quiver.”

There are signs everywhere, the khumar’s words were still occupying his mind as he looked at the rest of the arrows scattering on the floor. One out of twenty-four. Even if someone had put that arrow in her quiver on purpose, what were the chances that she would have picked it without looking? He closed his eyes and exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “Explain to me,” he said, “what I have to do.”

 

Xxx


	3. A Great Kha'a

**Three**

 

“You are certain about this?” The kha’a of Visarya, taking the offered wine from his only son, asked with an obvious frown on his face. He was in his late forty, still well in his prime where skills and strength were concerned, and impressively scarred as befitting a kha’a of a large, influential khagan. There were several lines on his face now, besides the scar that ran down the left side of his cheek, and his usually dark chestnut hair was now beginning to streak with grey. Za’in izr Husari was sad to be a strikingly handsome man in his youth, and Nazir thought that the evidence of time and hardships over the years had only made that fact more severe.

 

“My visions are never certain. You know this,” he replied. The things he saw weren’t always clear, and most would require some interpretations.

 

“Spare me your diplomatic presumptions, Nazir,” his father said crisply as he seated himself on the cushion behind a low, intricately carved wooden table. Nazir did the same on the opposite side. Nobody sat or stood higher than the kha’a, as per tradition. “You are the khumar and my trusted advisor. It is your opinion that I need, not information. Are you certain?”

 

Nazir swallowed but kept his composure. The kha’a of Visarya had never been a subtle man, especially not to his son. His father was a seasoned fighter, a battle-hardened, self-made kha’a who had risen into rank from a mere commonblood family. He had obliterated three rival khagans and taken five more into his own, had done it first with an unimaginably small army of two hundred men, which had now grown into more than two thousands in the past twenty years. Za’in izr Husari was a legend, a name that opened doors and passages for those who followed him — a nightmare for those who didn’t. _A nightmare for sons to live up to,_ he thought _._ Not bitterly though. Nazir loved his father, and had always found himself looking up to him, sometimes in a mixture of fear and respect, most of the time in awe.

 

“I am,” he replied, this time with more conviction in his tone. In a way, he had been certain of his interpretation. It was why he’d entered the tent and told the boy what he had told him, exposing himself in the process. He was going to be the next kha’a of Visarya, the most powerful khagan in the West, and would have to learn to wield and hold such a power. His father wasn’t going to let him forget it. He never had, even in small things, or when Nazir had been too young to understand why he had to be as hard as he was.

 

The kha’a nodded, and grew quiet for a time. “And Djari knows what this means?” 

 

 _I believe so_ , were the words that suddenly came to his mind. He checked himself just in time. “She does,” Nazir replied. After all, he _had_ told them everything — the boy and his sister — of what it all meant should they agree to do this. It was not a decision many people dared make, even for a grown man. To be someone’s sworn sword and blood was to swear an oath to serve and protect the person beyond all reasons for life or until that oath was released. The boy would live and die under her command, regardless of the obligations to his family or his khagan. The punishment for breaking such an oath was the same as a White Warrior breaking his — an execution of two generations of one’s bloodline. In exchange he would be under her protection, and be subjected to her and her judgement alone. No laws could touch him so long as he remained her sworn sword and blood. It was the only way the boy would live past tomorrow. 

 

To Djari, however, it meant that her life would be on the line for everything the boy did. You took  full responsibility for your sworn sword, that was the cost of having one. But she was a bharavi, the daughter of a kha’a, and he was a stray with no family for them to execute should he ever break his oath. The stakes had been too unbalanced for it to be a fair trade in any way one looked at it. Djari would have to choose purely on instinct whether to trust the boy, and while it would be her sole decision whether or not to accept that oath, the kha’a had to be informed. She was, after all, both his daughter and their bharavi — an important figure whose actions would shape the fate of the khagan, and more. _You are insane,_ was what he’d expected his father to respond. In too many ways, it was insanity.

 

“Has she agreed to this?” asked the kha’a, nursing the wine in his hand thoughtfully.

 

“She is thinking,” he replied. “I told her she has until the morning to decide.” None of them were going to sleep that night because of what he’d done. Nazir took a long sip of his wine at the thought.

 

The kha’a simply nodded. “Then we will wait for tomorrow.”

 

He looked up from his cup to see his father watching him levelly, all calm and composed. “You approve?” He had expected some kind of concern, even a flat-out rejection of the idea, and had prepared quite a speech to make sure he decided otherwise.

 

Za’in kha’a finished the wine and placed the cup on the table. Nazir filled it to the brim, unwatered. He never watered his wine. 

 

“Did you wait for my approval when you went to them?” asked his father, his eyes — an intense green — pinned him to the ground the same way he might have done so with a spear. 

 

Nazir, aware of what was expected of him, took a breath and made himself stare right back at his father. “No,” he replied. It wasn’t often that he’d decided on an important course of action without first consulting with the kha’a. As both khumar and a son, it would have been protocol. But something had told him this had to happen despite his father’s approval, and he had, in a way, done it to make sure it would be too late for anyone to interfere, even the kha’a.

 

“And you have done this, knowing the stubbornness of your sister?”

 

He hesitated, and then realized he shouldn’t. Whatever punishment would befall upon him for this, it simply had to be done, and he had been raised well enough to accept the consequences of his actions proudly. “I have.”

 

“Then it doesn’t matter if I approve.” The kha’a smiled and leaned back on the cushion, sipping his wine leisurely. “Djari will do exactly what she wants. That bloody girl always does. You know this as well as I do.”

 

There was pride in his expression. There had always been pride whenever he spoke of her. The kha’a loved his daughter dearly, despite the way they always seemed to clash against each other. Djari, stubborn, decisive, and utterly fearless, was her father’s daughter as much as he was his mother’s son. She would have made a great khumar, if only she had been born a boy. She might still make a great Kha’a if customs allowed it. 

 

“You are not angry with me?” He didn’t do that a lot — letting his insecurity be known to anyone, especially the man sitting across the table who would have seen it as a weakness to be fixed immediately. Perhaps it was the course of that day’s event or the magnitude of it, that had made him seek some kind of approval from the only person whose impossibly large shoes he was not likely to fill.

 

The kha’a leaned forward and picked up the pitcher to refill his cup, then did the same for him.  It was the first time he had done so, and Nazir, aware of the significance of such a gesture, found himself drawing back the cup reluctantly. Fathers didn’t do that for sons, especially when one’s father was Za’in izr Husari. 

 

“Do you think,” the kha’a said, looking levelly at him, “that I have been hard on you because I want your respect? Your submission?”

 

He took a sip of the offered wine and returned the gaze. “I think … that you want me to be a capable kha’a.”

 

“And what,” he smiled, “do you think are the qualities of a capable kha’a?”

 

He thought for a time and replied, “Strength. Discipline. Courage, to make difficult decisions.”

 

“You would have made a great kha’a,” he nodded, “and be dead within a year.”

 

Za’in kha’a rose from his cushion and gestured. “Come,” he said, and Nazir followed him out of the tent. 

 

The wind was strong, and Nazir tugged at his robe to shield himself from the cold. Next to him, his father stood unruffled by the harsh surrounding, wearing nothing but his worn-out grey tunic. The kha’a of Visarya had never liked wearing his Zikh, and would only put on one for the sake of ceremony when he had to. _It gave away too much,_ he had said. Nazir had often been reminded, admiring all those scars that covered nearly every inch of him, that his father was a fighter, a warrior before everything else.

 

“Look at our people,” he said, gazing at the tents scattering around the settlement. They had been here for the spring and summer for three years now. In the winter they would move further south where the ground wouldn’t freeze over. “Why do you think they sleep so soundly without guards around the valley?"

 

Nazir knew the answer to that question. He’d always known. “Because of you.” No one attacked Za’in izr Husari or his people at night, except maybe a Rashai army whose presence would be known days before they could even get close. For the khagans, it was a matter of pride. If you were going to kill a legend, you’d want it known and talked about honorably for generations to come, not attack him in the dark like a coward and disgrace your bloodline doing it.

 

“Because I have done the unthinkable,” the kha’a replied, his expression hard as a hammer. “I’d killed my kha’a and taken over the khagan. A commonblood, born into the family of camel herders. Now I rule over half the western region of the White Desert, my wife was a bharavi, my son a trueblood oracle, and my daughter holds the fate of the entire peninsula. Some will tell you that what I’ve done is an inconceivable act of treason, others will say I’m a tyrant, but that is why they fear me.”

 

There had been people who considered it treacherous, yes. There would always be if you rose above your station, even among people who valued skills and abilities as highly as they did. “Some people find comfort from seeking faults in what they can’t achieve.”

 

“In what they lack the courage to.” His father nodded. “Nazir. I am what I am because I’ve never waited for anyone’s approval. You do what you have to for the survival of your family, your people, even if it means breaking a thousand years of tradition, even if it makes you a tyrant. That is what makes you a good leader.”

 

The kha’a turned to face him. They were of the same height now, if still differ in substance and hardness. “Our people don’t need you to do what you should, Nazir. They need you to do what you must to protect them. What you did today has shown me you are capable of foregoing my approval to do what was right,” he said, his large, heavily callused hand slapped Nazir twice on the cheek endearingly. “You are much wiser than I am, and you have been given a gift that is far beyond what I can do. I need you to become the leader that knows what needs to be done and won’t hesitate when the time comes, even if it means killing me. Do you understand?”

 

It would seem that there was still an unlimited number of things his father could still surprise him with, after all this time. For all the lack of affection and the harshness of his words, Nazir had always known that at the center of it was the need to shape him into a kha’a capable of leading their khagan. What he didn’t know, was how much of it had had to do with preserving the lives of his people rather than his father’s reputation. How foolish and naive of him, to have focused on earning his father’s approval, rather than using his ability to do what was best for them. It was his support, his foresight as an oracle that the kha’a had needed, not a son who needed to fill his shoes. That day Nazir had discovered, that Za’in izr Husari wasn’t an ambitious man at all. He was a pragmatic one, if a little brutal in the way he chose to do things. Or a lot. 

 

 _Even if it means killing me._ He thought about that statement for a time as they stood, side by side, watching the peaceful night being unravelled by the gradual onset of dawn. “Is that why you killed the last kha’a?”

 

His father, grinning a little wider than usual, shook his head slightly. “No,” he said. “That was for your mother.”

 

Nazir allowed himself to smile openly at the rare display of playfulness from the kha’a and the love he still harbored for his kha’ari. It wasn’t everyday that one would get a glimpse of that side of him. “She was one hell of a woman, wasn’t she?”

 

“She was,” he replied, fixing his eyes somewhere in the distance. His expression softened considerably then. Nazir couldn’t remember the last time his father had allowed him — or anyone — to see such vulnerability in him and would alway remember that night for years to come.

 

They stood there for a while, sharing the quiet moment without any more words spoken before he was excused. His father remained where he was for a time, seemingly unbothered by the blistering wind. He took one last look at the kha’a before he turned to go, and once more was flooded by an overwhelming sense of awe for the man he called father. Za’in izr Husari was a sight to behold and remembered. A figure so large and terrifying under the stars, whose shoulders seemed capable of holding even the weight of the sky. He often wondered, if everyone felt that way about their fathers. If there would ever be the day when he didn’t feel so small against such a man.

 

Two of their guards were waiting for him near his tent. They straightened abruptly when they saw him. One of them had been among the men who’d brought back the boy, the other had been the guard on duty posted to protect their stable that night. The two of them had both been ordered to be discreet in their primary — if disguised — task of watching over their bharavi for some time. They had, outside of anyone’s knowledge, also been called off as discreetly that evening.

 

“You may resume your posts tonight,” Nazir told them. “I will call on you again for any changes.”

 

The stable guard lowered his head in acknowledgement, and then looked up at him. “And the boy, Nazir khumar?” 

 

There were many unspoken questions in the way he’d phrased the sentence that hadn’t escaped his notice. It didn’t surprise Nazir. He had, after all, given them both a rather unusual command that had led to an almost unthinkable outcome that night. They would wonder why, of course, perhaps even criticized his decisions in private, but it wasn’t needed for him to explain himself. He had to make that clear.

 

“Keep an eye on him,” he replied. “If he tries to run, you may shoot to kill.”

 

They both nodded and paid their respects before disappearing behind one of the tents. He turned to enter his own, feeling a little exhausted at everything that had happened, and then remembered that the night wasn’t yet over. He had left someone there before he’d gone to Djari and the boy, Nazir realized. He wondered if she was still there, and then decided immediately that she would be. There were always others to take her place if she were to be gone. It was too much of a risk considering what was at stake. Politics and ambitions extended to one’s bed when you held power.

 

“What happened?” She asked when he entered, lying invitingly on her side with a hand supporting her face where he’d left her. She must have heard him coming, but then he’d meant her to. They never liked being surprised, and he didn’t find the efforts to display themselves more desirably a nuisance. 

 

Nazir regarded her for a time from where he stood. Nyala was beautiful, a pureblood girl with golden hair and blue eyes. Her skin was the color of dark honey, almost matching his and Djari’s in shade. She had a long, straight nose and an upturned mouth that was a little too wide, and he had come to like these imperfections in a woman. It had been these things that made one so different from others. That, and the different ways they responded in bed that made the encounter interesting and memorable.

 

“Nothing you have to worry about,” he replied as he removed his robe and placed it on a nearby table. Some of them liked it when he wore his Zikh. Considering how hard it was to obtain one, he could understand the appeal of being with a White Warrior. There were many symbols attached to these robes that meant many things to different people. Courage, discipline, honor, strength, and protection, to name a few. They were qualities a woman might have searched for in a man, and Nazir hadn’t hesitated to use his Zikh on several occasions to achieve things he might not be able to do so easily without. But that night he’d needed it for something else. Power and intimidation were always useful in the world of men. That boy had needed more than a knife and binding to put him in his place. And he _had_ needed to be put in his place, to understand what he was dealing with, before Nazir could allow him to get close to his sister. One needed to know how to sheath a sword before using it, especially a sword as deadly as this boy.

 

It had not been an easy thing to witness, or to live with afterwards without seeing it repeated in your nightmares. What the boy had been through disturbed him, and Nazir, having seen a lot of things with his ability — including the circumstances of his own death — had never been easily disturbed. The visions had rushed through him the moment he’d entered that tent, vivid and terrifying like it had been his own memory. Among the images surrounding the boy’s past he had seen murder, pain, rape, and torture, had had to shut out some of them to keep his composure. It was one thing to see a mass slaughter or a raid done to a village or a camp, it was another to see it through the eyes of someone so young who had been subjected to it all.

 

The very fact that the boy was still standing, that he was still what he was, had not been a thing he should — or could — take lightly. Most people would not have survived so long under the same circumstances, and those who did were often broken beyond salvation. There was fight in the boy still, if not more so after everything that had been done. It had also been in his visions, that along with every unimaginable thing they’d done to him, there had also been a forging of iron, a striking of obsidian, that was shaping him into something dangerously sharp and terrifying. The only problem was, that he didn’t know whether the boy would turn out to be Djari’s best weapon or her downfall. He’d had only a premonition of something important happening when they met — if they were to meet — but no more.

 

“It worries you though,” Nyala said, frowning as she brought him back to the present. She’d slipped out of her robe, and was now standing before him in her pale blue nightgown. Her arms reached out and wrapped lightly around his waist, guiding him to the bed. He allowed her to. “You looked scary.”

 

Nazir smiled, pushing his thoughts aside as she climbed up and straddled over him. _Ask me why,_ he wanted to say, but it would have been pointless. They never asked him questions. No one had, except for his father and Djari. They were afraid of him, of what he could see. It could not be blamed. He was afraid of himself sometimes. Still, it would have been nice to find someone to talk to about these things. He could have found comfort in that.

 

 _Or in this,_ Nazir thought as she kissed him on the lips. She tasted like cake, and her hair smelled of cinnamon. Then he remembered that her mother was a baker, and her father the chief of the Northern camp. By customs, it was highly improper for her to be in his tent at such an hour — or at all — but it was hardly the first time, and fathers looked elsewhere when their daughters bedded a khumar or a kha’a. Assuming that they hadn’t planned it all from the beginning, of course. He was, in a way, being hunted by both the salar and his own people. There was immense power to be had when one’s daughter became the khumari. Because of this his bed had never been empty unless he posted guards in front of the door.

 

Not that he minded or did so frequently, except when he’d needed some alone time to think. Distractions were useful sometimes, especially at night when visions and dreams tended to invade his sleep.

 

“Do I still look scary now?” He said, slipping a hand behind her waist while his other hand undid the ties of her dress.

 

“Even more so,” she replied with a playful smile before leaning over to kiss him again.

 

On the table at the far end of the tent, something small caught the light from the hurricane that had been lit and placed nearby. Nazir took a glance at the object, and immediately reminded himself to discard such a thing in the morning.

 

After all, obsidian arrowheads could truly kill.

 

***

 

There was already light at the horizon. Za’in izr Husari closed his eyes and breathed in the cool night air, thinking of the morning that would soon come. It was no small thing he had done tonight, no trivial decision he had made. And it _had_ been his decision to make. Despite what he had told his son. He could insist on letting the boy die tomorrow. He could even have him killed tonight. The boy was a stray. There would be no one to question his honor for having him killed without trial. It would be wrong, with regards to their code of conduct, but it wouldn’t be the first wrong thing he’d done, or the worst. When two-thousand lives depended on you — or just your daughter’s — codes and laws meant very little to Za’in.

 

But Nazir had done this thing. His only son, who had always been fearful of his father — his opinion of him — had decided to go to Djari first with a clear intention of muscling him into accepting the inevitable. It had been Nazir’s first rebellious act that marked him as an adult, a man who’d decided to step out of his father’s shadow. One did not say no to such things, being a father, and he was a father before all else. His children didn’t know that, of course. There were damages you could do to your children for appearing too much of a parent. _Or too little of one_ , their mother would have said. She would recognize such a balance. Women were sensitive to these things, and Zuri had been one hell of a woman. She had been a loving mother, an understanding wife, a kha’ari much loved and admired by her subjects. The light of his life.

 

He had loved her from the moment they’d met. Many things he’d done, those life-changing decisions — and even suicidal ones — had been a result of his love for her. Young, long-limbed, and beautiful, she had been a bharavi promised to the last kha’a. A woman so far out of his reach that had been the driving force for him to do the impossible — the inconceivable. She had, once again, become far out of his reach now, and this time it was beyond his ability to close that distance. He could kill the man who had made it so. He could still do _that_. It gave him a sense of purpose, if nothing else. Vengeance was easy to hold on to and fight for.

 

It could also destroy a man.

 

Za’in was aware of the risk he was taking. He had always known of the madness that surrounded it, how fast it could consume and blind a perfectly wise and capable man. He could destroy the entire khagan, or march them all to their deaths in the pursuit of his personal vengeance if he was not careful. 

 

But he had Nazir, his only son who was also a trueblood oracle. The power that boy possessed — the wisdom and knowledge that came with it — was the assurance he needed. Nazir would know when to stop him. It was why he had to be hard on his son — too hard on occasions, he knew. When the time came, Nazir would have to be able to do it without hesitation. Or with one, if necessary. 

 

He had revealed a bit too much of himself tonight, Za’in thought with a grimace. There were weaknesses that came with being a parent, with loving another life other than your own. He was going to have to fix that tomorrow. Nazir izr Za’in was a trueblood oracle and his khumar. He must be these things before all else. 

 

So must Djari, for everything that she was and was destined to be.

 

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. He had never quite come to terms with it ever since Nazir had told him of his vision at the moment of her birth. She would bring an end to the war, he had said, but by way of salvation or destruction to their people, it had not been clear. They had tried to raise her as well as they could, to make sure it would be the first, not the latter. She was like him though, his daughter, too much like him for her own good. From the very beginning Za’in could see a reflection of himself in her. She had been a strong, feisty baby that was most difficult to raise. By the time she had reached the age of three it had taken several guards to keep her from venturing too far away from camp. The girl, curious, adventurous, and virtually fearless, could never be kept still for any amount of time. Intelligent children were all like that, his mother had said.  Intelligence wasn’t a problem. The problem had always been her tenacity, or too much of it. Djari was a rock, an immovable one once she’d set her mind to a task. No amount of punishment or chastising had ever been able to discourage that girl. 

 

 _Intelligence and tenacity,_ his skin pricked at the thought. You could create a hero or a monster from that combination. There was never much distinction between the two, if any. Djari was his daughter in this more so than anything else, and he knew how much of a monster he himself could become, how easy it would be. How many times he _had_. The thought scared him, and Za’in had never been afraid in all his life. It would have helped if Zuri had been alive. She would have known how to deal with it.

 

Or would she?

 

He wanted to laugh at his own folly. Djari would do exactly what she wanted, the same way he would have. More than this, she was the girl of the prophecy. It was her decision that would shape  the fate of the peninsula. That, and Nazir’s visions. Who was he to interfere or get in the way?

 

Not his role to play. Not truly. There was an ache in that reality as much as there was pride, he thought, grinning to himself. Children grew to succeed their fathers everyday, even one who was Za’in izr Husari. 

 

 _I am getting too old for this._ He smiled at that thought went back inside, pausing to rub away the pain in his knees along the way. Even the cold was getting to him now, Za’in had come to notice lately. He wondered what his wife would have said to all this, if she would find him old and brittle now, and realized he’d already known the answer.

 

_You have won yourself a bharavi, is that not enough?_

 

***

 


	4. An Extension of You

“I see Djari has gotten herself a handsome new horse,” Zabi iza Nyema said after taking a step back to look at him. She was grinning widely, obviously pleased with her work. Djari’s grandmother and mother to the current kha’a was a handsome woman with strong features, even though her hair had all become grey, and the lines on her face were deep and numerous. They were laughing lines though, and she smiled a lot with her eyes. Nan’ya, Djari had called her. It was how grandmothers were addressed in the White Desert. Hasheem realized he’d forgotten that word, and what his own Nan’ya had looked like.

Earlier that morning, iza Nyema had insisted he be taken to her tent as soon as the oath taking was done. He’d needed some clean up before dinner, she had said, wrinkling her nose. Hasheem didn’t blame her. For the past four days he had been sleeping mostly in barns and stables with the animals and must have smelled like a walking dung by then. There had also been so much sand in his hair that it had taken nearly an hour for the girls to brush them out. Iza Nyema had ordered him to be wiped down three times to make sure he was clean enough to be placed at the dining table. She’d also sent for a healer — a proper one this time — to check on his wound. He was especially thankful for that part, considering the fact that his relatively small arrow wound had turned into something a lot more substantial, thanks to Djari and her knife, on top of the burn itself that still hadn’t yet healed.

“Now let’s see what I can do with that hair,” iza Nyema said, settling him on a stool before she began braiding his hair. It had been kept long on purpose. He was a Shakshi, the most expensive asset as far as slaves were concerned, and as such had been expected to look like one. They had never braided him though — it made people nervous to see a Shakshi slave in braids that resembled the White Warriors. They had, however, dressed him up frequently back in Rasharwi, and he had come to be quite used to this kind of attention. 

It had mostly been a requirement of his service. Having gained himself quite a reputation, his clients had been mostly aristocrats and rich merchants in the past three years. Dressing for the occasion had been crucial, of course, especially when one was to enter stately homes and royal residences. In the past two years that Dee had taken him in, he’d pretty much lived in the Black Tower, had even seen the salar from afar and sometimes his bharavi wife. He remembered how she’d looked at him then, with unconcealed detestation in her eyes, like he’d somehow shamed her entire bloodline for just being there.

He could understand it a little more now, having met Djari and Nazir. Truebloods were raised to be proud examples of their people, and he, an obvious pureblood — the next best thing to bharavis and oracles — had become one of the most sought after and expensive escorts in the city. Any real Shakshi would, of course, see him as the lowest of their kind. He wondered briefly what Djari would say if she knew, but Nazir, knowing what he knew, hadn’t shown any reaction resembling that of the salar’s captured bharavi.

It hadn’t been an easy choice for him to commit to being good at what he had been forced to do, if one could even call it a choice. The moment they’d decided what your type of service would be, you could either live denying it and survived very badly — if at all — or rise above your station by excelling at the task. Someone had taught him that during his second year in captivity, and it had since been his reason for the things he’d decided to do or not do. There were also perks that came with entertaining aristocrats and nobles that one didn’t get from working with soldiers and middle-class merchants. There were less of them, for a start, and once his fees had become somewhat phenomenal, only a handful of people could still afford such a luxury. It had substantially lessened the frequency of his service, and made living a lot more bearable in many ways for him. He hadn’t been paid for any of it, of course, but between the gifts and the places he’d frequent, it wouldn’t have been wrong to say that he’d lived better than half the population of Rasharwi. 

Such fortune hadn’t come without a price, however. Nothing ever did. The more privileged they were, the more creative they could be in what they’d considered entertainment. Only by then there were little things he’d never been subjected to, and nothing, no one, could ever beat the first time they broke you. The chains had always been there though, physically at first, and then invisible in the later years, but still very much there everywhere he’d gone.

Even now, he thought, unconsciously rubbing the bruise around his wrist from being tied up the night before. Perhaps a different kind of chain but still a chain nonetheless. 

It still felt unreal to him, thinking back at the events that had happened earlier that day. He had sworn himself to Djari’s service and protection that morning, tying himself to her in ways that could be considered more binding than being someone’s slave. And she had trusted her decision — or her brother’s — despite everything that had happened the night before, or the fact that he had no family for them to execute if he were to break that oath. 

In truth, it shouldn’t have been possible, or allowed, even if the khumar himself had come up with the idea. The chiefs had clearly not been happy when Nazir had brought him before the council and told them of Djari’s decision. The kha’a, who Hasheem had later learned was none other than the legendary Za’in izr Husari, had sit quietly on the dais, arms crossed in front of his chest, listening to his son with an unreadable expression. When Nazir had finished, he’d turned to Hasheem and asked Why?

It had been the only question asked that morning, and the tent’s entire population beside himself consisting of ten high-ranking White Warriors and one bharavi had turned to look at him and waited for an answer. A simple question, truly, but also one that had been the most difficult to address given the circumstances. They had expected him to have agreed to this in order to survive. Everyone would, naturally. While it hadn’t been completely wrong, it would have been the wrong answer, especially for Djari, who had stood up for him and had been prepared to take on such a risk.

But he’d looked at her then, and had seen no doubt in her eyes. Djari had trusted her own decision in this, and had not hesitated. That morning he’d turned to the kha’a and told him of the attack on his own khagan five years ago, had lied about how and where he’d survived (the truth would have had him killed on the spot or put Djari in a highly difficult situation.) A merchant family in Khandoor had taken him in, he’d told them, and their caravan had been attacked and burned down four days ago on a journey across the desert by a raiding party. It had been where and how he’d gotten the burn, and also why he’d tried to steal a horse. But as to why he would take such an oath, he’d told them the truth, or at least what he’d believed to be true. 

The kha’a had listened, regarded him for time that felt like a century, and nodded. The chiefs’ protests had erupted immediately after, and had been silenced just as swiftly with just a few words from Za’in. Hasheem had never seen grown men — much less fully clad White Warriors —being made to swallow their objections so abruptly. Then again, it had been Za’in izr Husari on that dais, and his reputation alone should have been enough to silence even crying babies. This was, after all, the man who had managed to slaughter an entire raiding party of two-hundred Rashai soldiers with only fifty White Warriors — twenty, some stories would say — even before it had entered their territory. Sarasef of the Black Desert himself, another legend of equal reputation, had been said to have avoided raiding the Western khagans because of izr Husari. One didn’t mess with a man who gave the deadly Black Desert mercenaries second thoughts, and Hasheem, having seen the legend himself in the flesh that morning, didn’t doubt all those stories. When you were trained to a certain point, you learned to measure an opponent before a fight. As far as his ability to measure such a thing went, Hasheem concluded that he would likely die in less than three moves crossing swords with this man. 

Which was probably why the majority of that council had left the tent with no more than an occasional and discreet glare at Djari’s new sworn sword. It didn’t, however, change the fact that he’d managed to make an enemy out of at least eight Zikh-clad warriors after just one day of being there. For all he knew, his troubles had only just begun. He would have to start learning about each and everyone of those chiefs soon, if he hoped to survive.

“You’re going to break a lot of hearts,” iza Nyema said, smiling like an artist who was content with her newly finished work. She’d chosen to braid him like a fully grown White Warrior — in two, small, tight lines above either side of his ears, running in parallel towards the back of his head. “If only I were sixteen again,” she said.

“If only.” He returned the smile, out of habit more than anything else. “You would have broken mine.”

It wasn’t that far from the truth, if he were to be honest with himself. There was an air of something warm and comforting around this woman, like the morning ray of sun that would have attracted him a great deal. 

Iza Nyema paused for a moment and regarded him thoughtfully. In her eyes were a different kind of light now — a sharper, colder one that suddenly put him on guard. “Be careful, boy,” said iza Nyema, patting him softly on the cheek, her fingers cool against his skin. “I’ll break a lot more than that if you ever wound Djari.”

He didn’t doubt it, and in a way it shouldn’t have surprised him. This was the woman who’d raised Za’in izr Husari. If there had been warmth and comfort in her, it was not without strength at the center of it. 

“With all due respect, iza Nyema,” he told her, “it was your granddaughter’s arrow that struck me last night and her sword that would likely end my life when the time comes. If anyone is to be wounded in this, it would likely be me.” He could not, in truth, imagine himself or anyone wounding Djari, or imagine her allowing herself to be wounded, not emotionally anyway. Physically, well, he had just sworn to make sure that didn’t happen, hadn’t he?

She gave him a faint smile, but one that didn’t quite reach her eyes as before. “And what,” she said, trailing her fingers down the side of his face and tilted his chin up to face her, “would you do if she were to wound you? Are you the kind who fights, or would you run?”

It was then that Hasheem had come to understand the true reason why he had been brought to her tent. Zabi iza Nyema, old and frail as she was, had not been without venom. He was being measured, tested, and amply warned all in one sitting, while she was braiding his hair no less. It would seem that he was, once again, surrounded by vipers even if of a different kind than in Rasharwi.

“I am no stranger to pain,” he told her. “Whether I fight or flee, it will not be the cause.” Pain had never been a factor for him. He was used to being wounded, abused, and thrown into a hopeless situation with no where to run. Those things had never dictated his choices to live or die in Rasharwi. 

“Then what is?” She asked, her green eyes matching those of her son narrowed sharply. “Your pride? Your integrity? The love of your land? What do you want, Hasheem?”

What did he want? It was good question, and one he’d never thought of asking. He’d considered himself to be proud, but never to the point of willing to live or die for it. Integrity was something foreign to him — one couldn’t survive in Rasharwi holding on to anything resembling that. He had no love for his land, couldn’t even remember much of it, and even vengeance had not been on his mind when he’d decided to survive no matter what the cost. 

It had been none of those things that had forced him to endure all the pain and pride-swallowing events of his life. There had, now that he thought of it, always been a small yearning, like a faint flicker of light that seemed to have guided him through those ordeals. He was always looking for something — a chance to be elsewhere, to find something that had been missing. A place, perhaps, where there would be no more need or desire to run. He looked up at her then, surprised at the answer he’d just found and was giving her. “To find … my place in the world.”

“And where,” asked iza Nyema, “is your place in the world?”

There was a correct answer to that, one he didn’t have to stop and think before giving her. Considering the oath he’d just taken, to reply with anything else would have been deadly wrong. But it wasn’t what she wanted from him, not for a grandmother who loved her grandchild. “I can’t answer that,” he told her, “not right now.”

She smiled again, and this time it did reach her eyes. “Good,” she said, obviously pleased with the answer. “I would have put something in your tea if you’d said what you were expected to say. Come. We must be at the table before the kha’a.” 

***

The dining tent was large and somewhat more extravagant than the others. Inside was a low-legged, wooden table covered with a long, white strip of fabric beautifully stitched in gold and silver around the border. A large, most handsomely embroidered cushion was placed at one end of the table which would have been the seat of the kha’a. Immediately to the left seated Nazir and then Djari. Iza Nyema took the place opposite to her granddaughter and left the one immediate right of the kha’a vacant — presumably for the kha’ri whom he had yet to meet.

His place was beside Djari’s, Iza Nyema had explained. It was to be so from now on, everywhere she went, at anytime. He would take the tent next to hers, attend the same classes, and guard her during all activities unless she deliberately excused his presence. Nighttime would be an exception, but any private activities — iza Nyema had stressed—were to happen in his tent where he could still guard her effectively, and nowhere else. But he should know that the goat hair flaps didn’t keep in sound very well, she’d added with a grin. He’d simply smiled at that and told her he didn’t think he would be needing that information anytime soon.

Nazir looked up at him when he entered, brow raised in a small surprise, and gave him an approving grin. The serving girl, a dark-haired, hazel-eyed commonblood with freckles on her nose blushed all the way to her ears when he’d caught her gaze and gave her a smile. Djari, however, simply looked and nodded, unimpressed, as he sat down next to her. He might have been as interesting as a goat, judging from her expression. She also smiled very little, carrying herself like an adult most of the time despite her age. A thirteen year-old girl — he’d found out from iza Nyema — who looked like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. He wondered if all bharavis were that way.

The kha’a entered the tent some time later, alone. He had anticipated the kha’ari to have arrived before or at the same time, had been looking forward to see the woman who had raised Djari and Nazir. The seat, however, had remained empty throughout the meal even though a place had clearly been set up elaborately for one more guest. From time to time he would see Djari glance at the empty plate and then looked away from the table, thinking of something far away or from a long time ago. Another wound there, he thought, or the same one? 

They spoke of small things, and he had listened quietly, taking care to not show too much interest except when he’d been asked questions. Surprisingly, there had been no questions asked about his past, and he wondered if it was because Nazir had already told them everything. If he had, none of them had seemed to mind. Except maybe Djari. She sat through the meal without a word spoken, picking on her food absentmindedly and little. He couldn’t tell if something else was disturbing her, or that she was displeased with him. She was difficult to read, and he considered himself quite capable of reading most people.

“I assume you have been trained to fight?” The kha’a asked, taking a sip of his wine and then glanced briefly at his son. 

He realized then that Nazir had never asked or tested him on that particular matter, but from the way he sat undisturbed by the question, Hasheem figured he’d seen that in his visions too. 

“I can use a sword, a dagger, a spear,” he replied. For the last two years Dee had trained him excessively in the use of every weapon, including poison. He’d decided to omit that last bit from the answer. “I am … adequate with a bow.” Compared to what Djari could do, adequate was considered the correct word for his own skill. 

“And the rest?” Asked the kha’a. “How good are you?”

How good was he? Hasheem thought for a moment. He’d beaten all the other trainees in the first year. One had had to do that to become one of Dee’s personal guards. By the first half of his second year he’d defeated his master, earned himself the position of Dee’s right hand man and first class assassin. He had killed quite a few people that were considered good fighters, and fought his way out of Rasharwi with just a few flesh wounds. In the world he’d lived in he was considered pretty good. In front of Za’in izr Husari… “I’m not sure.” If a thirteen year-old girl could beat him with a bow, to these people, he could be average at best.

“A modest answer,” the kha’a said with an approving nod and a wide grin. “We’ll find out tomorrow. You will train with Nazir, and we’ll get you some weapons to carry.”

Djari shifted uncomfortably at that. She parted her lips to speak — to protest if he had to guess —and then pressed them back together. 

“I will not be training with Djari?” He was treading on dangerous grounds, questioning the decision of a kha’a. Then again he was now the only one in the khagan who could not be ordered killed even by the kha’a without Djari’s consent. There were, after all, privileges to being a sworn sword and blood he supposed. Still, it was wise to not make an enemy out of powerful men, and he knew boundaries had to be carefully observed.

Nazir raised a brow and looked at this father. Izr Husari regarded him for a moment, sipped his wine and grinned as he replied, “Djari’s training in combat has been limited, and she will no longer need them now that she has a sworn sword.” 

Djari, this time, didn’t hold anything back. “You cannot take away my training!” The tone she used was what he would consider a crossing of boundaries, even for a bharavi. 

Her Nan’ya winced at that, and Nazir shut his eyes like he’d suddenly developed a headache. He looked at the kha’a and saw his intense green eyes narrowed sharply at his daughter. That did not, however, get the reaction he’d expected from her. Djari met those eyes with an equally direct gaze, her lips pressed together tightly as she did. She was not about to back down on this, Hasheem realized.

Za’in izr Husari was a big man, and when he drew himself up and squared his shoulders he seemed twice as large. “The next time you use that tone with me,” he said crisply, the long, deep scar that ran down the left side of his cheek gleamed in the candlelight. “I will have your tongue removed and marry you to a khumar who doesn’t need his wife to speak. I am waiting,” he took a sip of his wine and placed it down on the table, “for an apology.”

It wasn’t about to come easily, Hasheem thought, looking at the young girl sitting next to him who seemed to have every intention to make Za’in izr Husari wait. She met her father’s gaze with a mixture of rage and hurt in her eyes, chest heaving from trying to control her emotions. He glanced down at her hands, saw them clench tightly around the fabric of her dress, and contemplated whether it would have been appropriate to offer her some comfort. Before he could decide, Nazir had reached out for one and squeezed it discreetly under the table. She closed her eyes then, drew a long breath and released it as she gave him what was due. “Forgive me,” Djari said, staring at the food she had barely touched. “It won’t happen again.”

The kha’a nodded in response and went back to picking food from his plate. He doubted she would notice the way his shoulders had suddenly relaxed the moment she’d apologized, that she would know her father had also been holding his breath waiting for it. Hasheem caught himself wondering which role Za’in would choose first when the time came, between being a father and a kha’a. There was always a price to power, as with everything else.

“You engaged an intruder despite my orders to stand down and call for guards in the face of danger,” her father began in a tone a kha’a might use with his subject at prosecution. “You deliberately disobeyed me by pursuing him beyond the boundaries of our camp where you have been clearly forbidden to cross. Your training has made you arrogant and foolish. It will be taken away until you learn your place and understand your responsibility. Do you find my judgement unfair?”

Hasheem winced at those words — a collateral damage from his own crime if he were to be honest with himself. She could hold him responsible for this and it wouldn’t be wrong. First day being her sworn sword and blood, and he seemed to have messed up her life quite phenomenally.

Djari, however, had listened quietly, still as a statue staring at a spot on her plate. Might have burned a hole in it if she could. “No,” she replied, not quite defiantly but definitely not as submissive as it should have sounded.

“As a bharavi,” the kha’a continued, his words cold and wholly lacking in emotions. “Your life is not yours to do with as you please. It is a property of the khagan, mine and that of the khumar you will marry. I expect you to remember this, and act accordingly. Am I understood?”

She mumbled a response, eyes still fixed on the table. They were red now, but still there had been no tears.

“You are the future kha’ari of a khagan,” snapped izr Husari, his voice loud and severe akin to the cracking of a whip. “Sit up straight and act like one. Do you understand?”

Djari straightened abruptly, the same way a soldier might have responded to his captain’s command. She raised her chin, looked straight into her father’s eyes and replied proudly, “I understand. Za’in kha’a.”

A retort of sorts, deciding to address her father in such a way. Djari could be the most difficult thirteen year-old he would ever meet — or have to deal with — Hasheem realized with a sudden need for a breath of fresh air. In many ways, he could sympathize with the father as much as the daughter. Then again, one had to wonder if her pride and stubbornness had been a result of his equally harsh and unforgiving upbringing. For a girl born into a ruling family, Djari had clearly been raised to see it as a burden to carry rather than a privilege. She was not being allowed much room — if at all — for being young and naive, or for freedom having been born into power.

Not a khagan to be defeated easily, Hasheem thought, if the sons and daughters of Visarya were all raised this way. He was beginning to understand a little more now as to why the White Desert had never been conquered, just watching the two of them that night. 

Three, he corrected himself, taking another glance at Nazir who’d been sitting there observing them quietly, thinking — or seeing— something he wasn’t about to disclose. Nazir izr Za’in was not, in any sense of the word, average, or to ever be taken lightly. This was a man who knew a lot more than he should. Someone who was also entirely capable of rearranging everyone’s lives to his liking ten — perhaps even twenty — years in advance. One would have to be truly brave or extremely ignorant to not be afraid of Nazir or of what he could do. And he was afraid of the oracle, perhaps even more so than the kha’a.

“You are dismissed,” said the kha’a to his daughter. “And for the last time, Djari, get rid of the horse.”

Djari swallowed, decided to give her father no response before rising to her feet swiftly and left the tent. On the table, her food was left nearly untouched. It had been a decision made deliberately by both of them, he could tell — Djari’s to not finish her dinner, and the kha’a’s to starve her for it. A clash of stone and metal, Hasheem thought. A conflict that seemed to have been going on for some time.

Later, he had asked iza Nyema in private if they’d always been this way. “Not since her mother passed away,” she’d replied. The empty seat had been for the kha’ari who’d been killed in a raid, deliberately set up and left empty at every meal as per instructions of the kha’a. A reminder of what they’d lost, she’d added. 

A reason for revenge, was what it truly was, if one were observant enough.

Revenge would mean a fight against the Salasar, against salar Muradi. A fight that would take every khagan to unite if they were to attack Rasharwi, or an army large enough to draw the salar himself to lead his force into the desert. It had happened before in the Vilarhiti, and the mass slaughter that had followed was still being talked about in bars and taverns more than a decade later. Salar Muradi was a legend in his own right. A hard, unforgiving man who knew how to fight — and win. For the kha’a to exact his revenge would take a force of epic proportions, and the command of a leader of at least equal capabilities.

A force of epic proportions brought together by Za’in izr Husari, Hasheem thought, backed by a trueblood oracle, and led by a girl who’d been born to end the war. 

It was possible, he realized with a shiver running down his spine as he walked back to his tent afterwards, that he had just become a part of something much larger than he’d ever imagined. He could see himself fighting by her side, cutting down Rashai soldiers in battle, even dying doing so, and immediately knew it would feel more right than anything he’d ever done in his life. 

What do you want? iza Nyema had asked earlier that afternoon.

The answer was becoming clearer to him now, even if he still couldn’t quite reply with certainty. There was a sense of purpose, a yearning that was much more than simply to survive that was taking over his life at that precise moment. Something was changing inside of him. He could feel it in his bones, in the blood that was rushing through his veins.

A cool breeze brushed softly against his cheek and brought with it the faint, cool scent of sage and mint that grew around the valley. He paused to look at where he was — something he realized hadn’t done since he’d arrived. The night was clearer then, and while there was still no moon in the sky, the stars could now be seen far across the desert where there had been none before. He noticed for the first time the golden, smooth-as-silk dunes that seemed to stretch far beyond the horizon, and the large, oddly-shaped white rocks that gave the White Desert its name gleaming like a curved wall of alabaster over and around the campsite. Somewhere in the distance, a woman was singing a lullaby to lull the little ones to sleep. She seemed to have been singing for some time, only he’d not been paying enough attention to hear it. 

It was achingly beautiful, in the way that it shouldn’t have been possible for him to have missed it so completely. There had also been, he suddenly remembered, so many beautiful things in Rasharwi he’d never stopped to appreciate. Everything seemed to have rushed by him in a blur for the past five years he’d been struggling to survive, and somewhere along the way he seemed to have lost focus of where he was heading. That night he could see it all again with startling clarity — where he had been, where he was, and the choices that had been laid out before him. For the first time in a very long time, he knew for certain the path he wanted to take, where he wanted to go, and he was trembling at the anticipation of what tomorrow might bring.

Something moved in the distance. He looked up and saw her standing alone in the dark, her near silver hair stood out against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. She had been walking back from somewhere towards her tent, had stopped for a moment when she saw him before resuming her steps. There was a blade in her hand, the one she’d used to assault him with earlier. It was dripping with the same blood that seemed to have stained the entire right side of her white tunic. Her eyes, so unnatural and otherworldly, were glowing a frightening shade of gold.

He could see it more clearly then, the arrow she’d fired the night before, how it had flown straight and true towards his heart, and realized it had never really missed. Not truly. Until the day before he’d had no idea what to do with his life, now he was her sworn sword and blood, his entire future bound to a single purpose that was so strikingly clear to him. It felt like he’d been killed and been born again.

‘I think, that I have survived to do exactly this,’ he’d told the kha’a when he’d been asked Why? He had done it on a whim, had sworn out of a hunch, nothing more, if he were to be honest with himself. The consequences of such an oath hadn’t even occurred to him at the time. 

It was clear to him now, watching her that night, feeling her presence slowly filling every dark and empty corners of his life with every step she took. He’d vowed to surrender himself to her, to let her into his life and become the center of his universe, to live an breathe at her mercy — something he’d never thought he’d do for anyone even if his life had been at stake. Such a revelation should have disturbed him now that he finally realized the full consequences of his actions. It didn’t. He could find no feelings of regret in his own decision, not one, not that he was aware of.

She stopped and looked at him when they were close enough to speak. He could see the smear of blood on her cheek and the crimson stains on her silver hair from where he was standing. She must have just killed her horse — he understood from the command he father had given that evening. It would have been her first kill, if he remembered correctly their earlier conversation. 

The first time was always the hardest. It changed a lot of things and ended a lot more than it should. A part of you died with the first life you took, and its remains stayed with you, haunted you for as long as you lived like a corpse that never seemed to rot or decay. The blood would never wash off, not truly. Not ever. For all he knew, she should be crying but wasn’t. Her bright yellow eyes were clear, and more focused than they’d ever been. She wasn’t even close to tears. 

“Will it always be this hard?” Djari asked with an obvious tightness in her voice.

“Harder,” he replied, “if you allow it to be.” There was no point in trying to comfort her with lies, not when he knew there would be a next time, and the next, and the next. You could punish yourself forever for your sins and stay where you were, or learn from it and move on. The first wasn’t truly a choice, not if she had any intention to fulfill the prophecy. Too much integrity could sometimes hold back the entire peninsula. A terrifying thought, considering who she was. Even more terrifying, to think that whatever he said to her could start the ripple that led to the destruction the Salasar. Or the White Desert.

“And if I don’t,” she asked, the outlines of her face seemed harsher in the low light, “allow it to be?”

“Then it gets easier over time.”

There was a small pause. Djari looked down at her hands — stained completely by the blood of her horse — and then back at him. “Do I want it to be easy?”

It was a question he was both glad and sad to hear. “Enough to do what you have to,” he replied. She would have to end — or give an order to end — thousands more lives and not just those of her enemies to do what she was destined to. Only the arrogant or the naive would see only the grandeur of war, and he knew better than to let her have such an illusion. She would have to come to terms with hard decisions and seeing herself as a monster from time to time. She would have to kill, in cold blood, and be able to sleep through the night to kill again. “Never to the point of being effortless,” he added. There was a line she also could not cross or she would become the tyrant she wanted to defeat.

She stilled for a little while, thinking, accepting something in her mind. He had a feeling she knew all the answers to her questions, and had only needed a confirmation of her beliefs. It was extraordinary, unbelievable even, to see a girl so young going through an event that would mark the end of her innocence while still being able to look far beyond her own grief. He wondered if it had been all her, or because she’d grown up knowing who she was and what she was expected to be. Then again, not everyone were made to carry a responsibility of such magnitude even if they’d been raised to.

Still, he wondered how far she would be able to carry it. Such a burden could be seen too heavy for a grown man, even for someone as experienced and battle-hardened as her father. Watching her that night, seeing her try so hard to be stronger than she was made to be, he felt within him a desire to help carry some of that weight. After all, he was her sworn sword and blood, the one who had sworn serve and protect her for life. It only felt right. 

“I could have put down the horse,” he said as mildly as he could. “If you’d told me to.”

She looked at him quietly for a time, and grimaced. “If I’d told you to?” 

The sharpness in her tone gave him the urge to defend his proposition. “I have sworn to serve and protect you this morning,” he replied reassuringly. “My life is yours by right to command.” He had, after all, agreed to tie himself to her, to put the chains back on his wrists and ankles. It had been a choice he’d made without regrets and she should know he was content with his decision.

“And what does that make you?” she asked. “My slave?” 

It was his turn to frown. “I have agreed to this willingly. There is a difference.”

“There isn’t,” Djari snapped, cold anger in her eyes. “You are no more than my slave if your life is my right to command, whether or not it was offered willingly. I am no Rashai. We do not take slaves in the White Desert or find it flattering to be offered such a service. What have I done for you to find me so lacking in courage, in honor, to believe that I am capable of doing such things?”

“I didn’t…,” he stammered at the sudden, most unexpected response. Djari was, somehow, genuinely pissed at what he’d considered to be a proclamation of his loyalty. 

“Did you really think that I took you in this morning to have your life at my command?” she continued, her eyes burning a pair of intense, golden flame. “I took you in for your skills, your ability, your sword. I need you to be what I am not, to be my eyes and ears when I can’t see, to fight my enemies and stop me when I cross the line. I need a weapon to win this war and an ally I can trust, not a slave or a pack horse.” She took a step closer and looked up at him, pinning him to the ground with those yellow eyes despite her smaller frame. “You are an extension of me, my own flesh and blood, that is where you now belong in my life, and what you have sworn to be. Do you understand?”

For the first time in his life, Hasheem was at a complete loss for words. He felt something shattered inside of him then, something he’d considered to be a fortress, a shield surrounding a place no one was allowed to enter or touch. It was the only way to survive without losing sight of who he was, and for years he’d nurtured it, protected it as the last piece of himself that still belonged to him despite everything they’d taken and destroyed. No one could take from him this last thing he would not give. 

And Djari had taken it that night, had broken through all his walls and snatched it into her hand so effortlessly and permanently that there had been no way he could have resisted. My own flesh and blood. Somewhere, someone had said that to him once. He remembered it now, along with the gentle hand that stroke his hair, and the kiss on his forehead that followed. There was a time when he was a part of something, when he had a place to call home, when he wasn’t alone in the world. For a long time he’d forced himself to forget it ever existed, convinced that it was never to be so again. And Djari had come into his life and had said what she’d said, had given him the only thing that’d been missing and had always wanted — a place to belong.

There was a tightness around his heart, so powerful it was difficult to breathe as he thought of a response. He had an urge to kneel, to offer her his heart, his life, everything he still had that was worth having, but she would take none of it, he knew that now, not in the way he was prepared to give. She was bigger than that.

“Then let me be an extension of you,” he said breathlessly, still shaken by what was happening. “Take me with you to battle so I can be your weapon and your shield. Allow me to be the monster you can’t become when you have to be. Next time let me kill the horse, or we do it together, you and I. Don’t do this alone.” He held out a hand, realized it was trembling, and didn’t care. “What do you say?”

She looked at the offered hand, drew an unsteady breath and then answered his gaze with an expression that was milder than before but not at all lacking in conviction. “Together?” she asked, seemingly unsure of her own decision. She was as overwhelmed by all the events of that day as he had been, Hasheem realized.

“Together,” he repeated, his voice no longer trembling now.

She stilled for a time and then reached out with her hand. Her small fingers impressively roughened by the bow despite her size and age wrapped around his so unwaveringly as they stood face to face, joined in an understanding that was to be his and hers alone. Their fates were tied now, more permanently so than the oath he’d taken that morning had demanded it to be. 

You are an extension of me, my own flesh and blood, that is where you now belong in my life.

Hasheem would never realize until later on, despite the fullness of his heart that night, that there would be a time when such a place he’d been given in her life was simply not enough.


	5. To See You Die

“Where is Lasura?” Zahara asked without removing her eyes from the procession down below. Preparations had already begun hours ago when a message announcing the arrival of the salar had been delivered. Four hundred soldiers in their black liveries now dotted the passage to the tower, forming what looked like two perfect parallel lines of army ants working in unison from her chamber in the West Wing. The captain of the royal guards was seen riding up and down the passage, making sure everything was spotless and close to perfection while the generals sat fidgeting atop their equally nervous mounts overseeing the whole process. The degree of tension generated by the men who’d been trained to do and had done their jobs for decades was so high it could be said to emit a scent. That was the usual mood in the Black Tower whenever the salar occupied it — or about to.

 

“He was seen riding out shortly after lunch,” replied Kiara, moving to stand by the window next to her. “He was carrying a bow.”

 

An expected answer, but still one that made Zahara grimace openly. “And the princes? They’re all here?”

 

It wasn’t a part of her job to know, being no more than a lady in waiting to one of the salar’s six wives, but her handmaiden had been no ordinary court lady in her youth. Kiara iza Zabi, daughter to the late chief of the northern camp, had once been a trained warrior in grey, a personal guard to a bharavi, the future wife of their khumar, and a friend, more so than anything else. For all the things she had been, Kiara would always make it her job to know everything that happened in the Black Tower, including where the princes and perhaps also their mothers were at any given time.

 

“Except Azram.” The lack of honorifics told Zahara the rest of the handmaidens had been excused from the chamber. Leave it to Kiara, to always know when she needed her privacy. 

 

“Of course.” That too, had been somewhat expected. “They’ll be back in time if he’s with Azram,” she said, more to herself than to assure her childhood friend. “Assuming they haven’t intercepted him already.” 

 

Prince Azram, the salar’s firstborn by the salahari had been working tirelessly to please his father, hoping to be named his successor now that he was of age. He would never be late for the arrival of the salar. It would be a while though, Zahara knew, before a son would be named a crown prince, if at all. One of the first things Muradi had done the moment he’d taken that throne was to toss out the rules of succession and made it his right to name whichever man he saw fit to rule an heir, royalty or not. With two sons already executed for being too eager for the throne, even the salahari knew the odds of hers not succeeding his father was equally high, and both the mother and the son had since been trying in every possible way to make sure he did, including making use of the salar’s seemingly favorite Shakshi son to please him.  

 

It was, however, generally understood that whomever he chose to succeed him would never extend to one of Shakshi blood, half or whole. For this reason, her own son had never been seen as a threat and could even be considered safe in the Black Tower where the throne was concerned. That, and the publicly proclaimed decree from the salar himself to execute every prince he saw fit and their mothers should any unfortunate, untimely accident or a mysterious sickness should find his Shakshi wife or the halfblood prince had helped to ensure the two of them would continue living for a long, long time.

 

He could father new ones, he’d said, if he ever needed a son — which he didn’t. Blood ties held no weight whatsoever for salar Muradi of Rashawi. Those who knew him knew he had always been more suspicious of his family members than he had a perfect stranger. Not surprising, considering what he himself had done in the past to his own blood to get to the throne, or what his own blood had done to him.

 

It might all seem like a breeze for the two of them, having what was generally understood as a special place in the Tower, and being so well-protected by the salar. What most people didn’t realize, however, was that such a place would only exist as long as their existence continued to serve the salar’s purpose, one only his trusted advisor and his personal guard knew or understood.

 

A purpose that had originated eighteen years ago in the Vilarhiti. 

 

Zahara winced at the pain in her chest as the memory came back to her. They did that sometimes, especially when he was back in her life after a long absence. 

 

Eighteen years, and she would always remember everything like it’d happened yesterday.

 

***

 

She had been nineteen years old. The salar — prince Muradi at the time — had just successfully wiped out her khagan and three more that had united against his army in the Vilarhiti. He’d found her, bound to a post in one of his general’s tent after having been informed that a woman was missing from the total headcount of prisoners taken that day. The general who had yet to learn, or had been too ignorant to notice, the seemingly supernatural ability of the crown prince’s most trusted advisor and righthand man to be so shockingly accurate and precise during the chaos of battle, had thought he could keep a girl for entertainment for a few nights unnoticed before sending her back to her holding pen. Prince Muradi who had just been named heir to the salar earlier that spring, being already on edge from the heavy loss of his army despite the eventual success of his campaign, had stormed into the tent with his two obsidian blades and executed the general with his own hands — something he hadn’t done often, judging from the look on the guards’ faces. 

 

She thought he would kill her too, lying on the ground with her dress torn to shreds and covered in the general’s blood. Those dark, deep-set eyes glared at her from above with so much hatred at the trouble she’d caused, as if it’d been her fault that she was there. She looked away quickly then, trying to hide her eyes in the shadows of the tent, holding her breath praying that he would leave before certain things about her would be discovered. Turning abruptly to his advisor, he snapped a clear and precise order to have every man who might have been aware of such treason executed before dawn and then strode towards the exit.

 

The prince, in all his fury, already had one foot outside when he suddenly stopped dead in his track, as if there was a calling, or an invisible force of some kind that was preventing him from leaving. He turned, in an agonizingly slow and calculated manner to look over his shoulder towards where she was. She kept her eyes down, forcing herself to remain calm despite the nervous pounding of her own heart as the sound of his measured, decisive footfalls grew nearer. When they came to a stop, Zahara knew her world had ended.  There would be nothing but hell waiting for her now, unless she could find a way to end her life. Or his.

 

He stood there for a time, looking at her quietly from an imposing height above. She could feel the scrutiny of his eyes without having to look up. The tent fell abruptly into complete silence, and the commotion outside made by the soldiers who’d been busy with their posts felt suddenly distant and detached to her. All she could hear was the prince’s steady, controlled breathing that had slowed substantially from his initial explosion of rage. There were things turning in his mind as he stared at her, she could feel it, and pieces of puzzles were being put together in that short moment of silence.

 

“Light,” he commanded, holding out a hand.

 

Someone stuck a flint and offered him a torch at what seemed to Zahara an unreasonable speed for such a thing to be done. Orders seemed to be carried out impossibly fast around this man, she noticed. 

 

“I will see your eyes,” he said with the tone of someone used to being obeyed. The torch in his hand danced wildly to the whistling wind that entered the tent. It was held low and close enough for her to feel the heat nearly scalding her cheeks.

 

She closed her eyes and forced her breaths to slow. She had known the time would come, had been prepared for it the moment her khagan had fallen, when her father had been killed and both her brothers slain on the battlefield. There wasn’t many choices for her in captivity, as there hadn’t been in many things from the time she was born. Zahara knew this. At nineteen she was already used to facing the lack of choices in her life, of being backed up into a corner with nowhere to run.

 

And so she did the only thing she’d been raised to do. Straightening her spine despite the pitiful state she was in, she willed herself to look up at him, to stare proudly into the eyes of the man who’d ordered her home set on fire and turned her life upside down overnight. For everything she’d lost and still yet to lose, there were things they would never take from her, and she would make that clear.

 

Prince Muradi, still a young man at the time, stared down at her with the most vivid, penetrating pair of steel blue eyes that could easily rival her older brother’s yellow in intensity. They held hers in the way a highly intelligent predator might have done so while working out a strategy to catch a difficult kill. It would have been better, she thought, if the look he was giving her had matched those of his men who had regarded her as nothing more than a tied up, half naked, woman. This man, however young and capable, seemed to have a bigger agenda in mind than the significance of what lay between his legs.

 

“Why,” he said, cold anger rising in his steel-like tone, “was I not told there is a bharavi among these khagans?”

 

The soldiers behind him shifted their weight nervously. Only the man she understood to be his trusted advisor was able to keep his composure, even though there seemed to suddenly be something large dislodged in his throat.

 

The prince, standing as still as a rock, turned to look over his shoulder when the answer didn’t come readily. “Are you all deaf, or am I?” 

 

Those words, spoken only lightly and in almost a whisper, had been enough to drain the blood from the faces of everyone in that tent, with the exception of the advisor whose stern, statue-like expression had never once changed for the entire time he’d been in that tent. He swallowed the mysterious object in his throat promptly, straightened himself and replied, “I will have the men responsible found and brought to you before dawn, my lord.”

 

A clever answer, she thought, one that would cost many lives, on top of what had been lost in the past few days. 

 

The young prince, drawing a breath and exhaled loudly as if to make sure it would be heard, shook his head. “Have their heads on display before dawn along with General Hamir’s accomplices and their crimes clearly explained for all divisions,” he commanded in an effortless, practical tone, the same way one might have instructed a meal to be prepared or a table to be set. “Take this woman, wash out the red filth on her hair, and bring her to me. I will speak to this bharavi before nightfall.”

 

***

 

He was being stripped down by two handmaidens when they brought her in. The armor had been taken off and laid neatly on a bench to their right, leaving only a single layer of tunic underneath. The black silk, trimmed subtly with gold threads in a simple yet elegant design, clung to his blood-soaked body as if he’d been riding all day in the rain. It wasn’t that far off from the truth. The Vilarhiti had rained blood that evening, and had the fabric been any color but black, it would have shown.

 

It would have, truly, been similar to her own garment, Zahara thought, tightening the arms around her chest as she continued to shiver uncontrollably from the cold. As per instruction of the prince, they had washed out the temporary red dye she’d applied to her hair to hide her identity in the case she was captured. The paste, made from a mixture of red wine and the root of a Biba tree came off easily with enough water but left a blood-like stain on her clothes, or whatever had been left of it. Having been too terrified to touch her after learning what had happened to their general, the small group of low-ranking soldiers who’d carried out the task had left her dress on as they emptied buckets of ice-cold water on her hair, and decided to deny her a change of clothing afterwards.

 

It had not been a part of the command, one soldier had argued when another had suggested giving her something dry to wear. She might be executed soon, he had said, and it could be considered a waste of resource, which the prince didn’t like. But then her soiled garment and state of appearance might irritate him, the first man had objected, and the others had considered that argument to be valid but not quite sufficient to draw any conclusion. The issue, from which more arguments had been thrown back and forth for a considerable amount of time, had ended up being passed over to a higher ranking officer on duty to judge. The officer, finding it above his rank to decide, had thought to bring it up to the general of their division, who had then decided it was safer to check first with the prince’s advisor regarding this highly difficult and delicate issue before giving a command. By then twilight had already been approaching, and the decision, she’d overheard from the commotion, had ended up being one of sending her in whatever state she had been in to his tent as soon as possible. The most crucial and clearest part of the command, his advisor had strongly advised, had been, ‘before nightfall.’

 

And so she had been sent there, still in her tattered, dye-stained garment, and dripping wet from her hair — which was now back to silver — to her toes. They’d at least given her a blanket to dry herself, for the reason that the prince would definitely find it unpleasant to have his floor wet and stained.

 

Zahara wondered, watching the girls proceeded to remove the last piece of clothing from him with exaggerated care, whether this man had been aware at all how much trouble he’d caused with a simple command. It was becoming clear to her that the first rule around here was to be competent or be executed, even for something as trivial as the matter of her dress. She could see why the Rashai soldiers, usually somewhat intimidated by their White Warriors during battle, had fought the way they did in the plain that had been her home. They would have been more terrified of this man, this monster who was leaving no room whatsoever for mistakes.

 

It might have been why they’d lost the battle, despite the khagans having united for the first time against a common enemy. Stories had been told repeatedly of the exiled prince, sent to the dungeon of Sabha among the slaves and prisoners in his youth as a part of the punishment for his mother’s crime of infidelity. The boy, who had later been pardoned and reinstated in status after three years of being imprisoned, had made it back to the the Black Tower and eventually became the rightful heir to the throne. There had also been, she recalled, stories of several untimely deaths in the salar’s royal household in the past ten years.

 

The truth to those stories was being made clear to her now by the numerous scars that criss-crossed along the hardened muscles of his body. He was standing with his back to her, completely stripped down to the skin in the middle of the tent abundantly lit by four hurricanes in the corners. On the back of his left shoulder, the mark of slavery remained visible and strikingly clear. It would have had to be left there deliberately, in light of the many procedures available to him to remove or alter such a scar. Zahara thought she might have been able to guess why he’d decided so, but she was too afraid of being right to fully shape that thought.

 

The girls began to wipe him down with a cloth, dipped and washed in scented water that smelled like a mixture of sage and mint. The bucket had required change with almost every limb they’d cleaned. He was, she realized, covered almost entirely in blood. 

 

 _The blood of her people,_ Zahara thought bitterly, watching it being wiped completely from his skin, as if the massacre had never happened, and the pile of dead bodies outside had never existed. She had seen him in battle. Everyone had. A dark figure atop a black horse, snapping precise, efficient command in the midst of chaos had been difficult to miss. He’d ridden at the front where the White Warriors congregated, and had survived, apparently, with no more than a few flesh wounds. 

 

 _‘We will not win this fight,’_ her father had said on the first day of battle, watching the two armies clashed against each other from a cliff overlooking the plain. _‘Not unless we have that man on our side, or we find a way to kill him,”_ he’d told her, resting his large hand on her shoulder and squeezing it firmly. _‘ Pray, Zahara, that he never makes it to the throne.’_

 

She hadn’t understood it at the time, not from watching the battle from such a distance. They’d managed to push back the Rashai army that day, but not without a considerable damage to their own force no one had anticipated. The next day the warriors had been commanded to target the prince, but the gods had not been on their side, and all the arrows they’d fired had missed the mark. The window of opportunity had been too small, it had been reported. The prince, having understood immediately what they’d tried to do, had swiftly relocated himself to the center of his army and well out of arrow range for the rest of the day. It had, however, cost him a heavy loss due to the lessened knowledge and control of his force, and as a result, they’d gained a day off battle to reorganize and tend to the wounded. 

 

On the fourth day he’d returned to the field with heavy armor and a band of royal guards surrounding him on all sides, paving the way to bring their commander to the front, taking the rain of arrows — and falling — in his place. Every time they’d taken down a man, a new one replaced him in the circle they couldn’t penetrate, and from within that safety made possible by the endless lives being sacrificed, the prince had taken back the full command as he had done so precisely before. 

 

It had lasted two more days after that. The Vilarhiti had fallen, for the first time in the long history of countless battles against the Rashai. Four large khagans had been disassembled, their survivors taken prisoners down to the last child. Their horses, the very best in the peninsula, had been rounded up with utmost care and would now be used to strengthen the Rashai army. All the White Warriors had died one way or another. They could not be taken alive, not for what they knew and had sworn to protect. Her father and brothers had been among those deaths. They’d died with honor, with pride on the plain of Vilarhiti. All because of this man. The man who was standing naked, unarmed and unprotected before her. 

 

“What is your name?” 

 

The deep, low voice sounded without warning. Zahara jolted back instinctively, partly at being suddenly addressed and for the dangerous thought that was beginning to take form in her mind. It had been a while since she’d been tossed into the tent, and until then, the prince had not shown a single acknowledgement of her presence besides the initial nod to his burly personal guard who’d brought her in, who was also still, as quietly, standing behind her with a massive axe strapped to his back.

 

She drew a breath, straightened herself to regain some composure, and replied acidly, “I see no reason why you need to know.” She would be dead soon — as soon as there was a chance for and for the same reason the White Warriors had died. It was why there hadn’t been a need for her to weep over the loss of her family or her khagan. Only those who were left behind would mourn the deaths of their loved ones, and she hadn’t intended to be someone left behind.

 

The two handmaidens, in nearly synchronized motion, made a small, startling sound and turned to stare, wide-eyed at her, as if someone had just cursed a god in his own temple. Ignoring the gestures, she focused her attention on the figure between them, waiting for the response she’d been aiming for. The prince, showing no such signs resembling that of his attendees, stilled for a time at her words, and with a slow, confident step of someone used to dominating every room he occupied, turned, in all his nakedness, to face her.

 

Zahara, acutely aware of the fact that there was a man standing with every inch of him fully exposed before her eyes, fought the initial instinct to turn away and kept her gaze precisely where it had been before. He regarded her for a time, and, understanding quickly the message that was written on her face, decided to take a step forward, out of the shadows made by the two handmaidens and into her unobstructed line of sight.

He stood, in the middle of the tent, with his head held arrogantly high, legs firmly apart, and shoulders pulled back as if to catch better the flickering light of the hurricanes, inviting — challenging — her to scrutinize his naked form and waiting to see if she had the stomach for it.

 

It just so happened, that apart from being a bharavi, she had also been an experienced healer, making her no stranger at all to the male or female bodies. She sneered a little at the attempt, and proceeded to scrutinize, as she had been invited to do, the figure that was being displayed before her.  

 

The prince, moderately tall and unquestionably built to the exact proportions from which a sculpture artist might have rendered his masterpiece, was well covered with hard, compact muscles that spoke of years of training in both combat and endurance. His skin, sun-drenched and substantially darker than an average Rashai, had been scarred as impressively as a highly experienced White Warrior of their khagan. He wasn’t a big man, not in the same sense as his giant bodyguard behind her, but Zaharra knew without having to see it put to the test that he would be a match for some of their best wrestlers with those broad shoulders and sturdy, saddle-hardened thighs. The very fact that this man who was about to be handed the salasar and all its power and riches, was also well endowed, in so many more ways than one, was a hard, depressing evidence of how unfair the gods can be.

 

In another place, or another time, and given a different circumstances, Zahara thought that she might have been able to admire such qualities in a man as capable as this. But there and now, he was her enemy, the murderer who’d killed her family, the monster she wanted to see dead, and nothing else. Watching him that night, Zahara found herself detesting the man before her more and more as time went by, not only for what he’d done, but for what he was, for the detached respect and obvious admiration her father had had for his enemy, and for the heat on her cheeks that had not been from the hurricanes.

 

“You speak Rashai?” he asked at length, looking at her with no more than what appeared to be a keen interest in a brand new creature he’d just discovered.

 

“I speak four languages,” she made a point at replying in Samarran.

 

He nodded, thought for a moment, and said in fluent Khandoori, “You are schooled in the arts of language?”

 

“No more than in history, geography, and mathematics,” Zahara responded, this time, in formal Shakshi. “We are not savages or uneducated camel herders despite what your incompetent informers might have told you. Do you,” she asked, switching back to Rashai now, “need me to translate?” She had, after all, thrown in some difficult words on purpose for a chance to see that arrogance being subdued a little.

 

It didn’t touch him. Not even a little. 

 

“What is _jamanya_?” he asked with casual curiosity, in the way one might have inquired a cook on the ingredients he’d used. 

 

“ _Djemanya_ ,” she corrected, feeling increasingly irritated by the realization that the prince was too unrealistically competent, too sure of himself to be the slightest bit ashamed by something as insignificant as his limitations in the knowledge of a foreign language. Which, she admitted, had been what she’d so childishly attacked him with. It made her feel suddenly small. “Incompetent,” she explained in Rashai.

 

“ _Djemanya_ ,” he repeated, this time in perfect pronunciation. She could see him taking a note of that in his mind, and was sure he’d remember it. She was also sure that her master linguist would have wanted to adopt him had he been one of their own.

 

“Leave us,” he turned to the girls and dismissed them, to which they promptly obeyed and left the tent. 

The prince, still clad only in his own skin, took three steps across to stand before her. He paused for a time, watching her quietly as if waiting for a chance to catch something she might let slip. She forced herself to remain still, holding his gaze, despite an awareness that the distance between his entirely naked body and hers was only a hand-width away — her hand, to be precise. At such a distance she was certain he could feel her every breath against his skin if she were to breathe a little harder, and would likely hear the nervous beating of her heart unless she could quiet it soon. The thought of backing away had crossed her mind several times, but she would not, over her dead body, allow him to intimidate her to that point with or without his clothes on.

 

There would be nothing, no one at all to stop him from whatever he wanted to do to her. That reality, too, had always been there in her conscience, pressing down on her every time she turned a corner. But no matter how long she’d known it to be true, nothing would ever be enough to prepare her for it. He would do whatever it took, she had no doubt whatsoever, to get what he wanted, to force her to reveal something that would change the fate of the entire peninsula. But it was also something she’d vowed to never give, no matter how vile, how unbearable the torture he was about to put her through would be.

 

Leaning forward, he reached a hand over to rest on something behind her ear, brushing her hair a little as it went by. Zahara closed her eyes and braced herself at the sudden disappearance of whatever space that had been left between them, and the torture she knew would follow. 

 

“Don’t worry,” he said in a whisper, breathing lightly down the side of her neck. “I am not as incompetent as my men, however you may think of me.”

 

And with that, he pulled back the robe that had been hung on the wall behind her and proceeded to cover himself with it.

 

Zahara, feeling suddenly numbed from her head down to her toes from the anger that suddenly erupted over the fact that she’d just allowed herself to be played by her enemy, rasped a reply she might have considered unwise had she been more calm and composed, “You are just as foul and as despicable as your men, that is what I think of you.”

 

There was an axe on her neck the instant she finished the sentence. The burly guard — large as a bear and could be said to look like one — had been quick to respond despite his gigantic size. 

 

“You will bow and apologize before I take off your head, Shakshi.” The tone had been raw, with genuine anger clearly etched in every word as if he himself had been insulted, or his mother’s.

 

She kept her eyes leveled on the prince as she replied, deliberately ignoring the blade at her throat, “I am a bharavi, daughter to the kha’a of the largest khagan in the Vilarhiti. I bow to no one but my kha’a. You do not outrank me, here or anywhere in the peninsula. If you want submission, seek it in your own land.”

 

The blow that followed landed on her cheek so hard it sent her crashing against the wall and landed at his feet. She tasted blood on her lips and wiped it with the back of her hand before turning to glare daringly at the giant who’d just slapped her with his massive palm, wishing for that axe to finish her for it. It would have been a quick, painless death, and just what she needed had the bear been less sensitive to his master’s need to keep her alive. He was, unfortunately, fully aware of such a need, judging from the way he was struggling so hard to not chop her into pieces.

 

“That’s enough, Ghaul,” said the prince with no more than casual amusement in his eyes, looking down at her. “Leave us. I will speak to this bharavi alone.”

 

“My lord…,” he began to protest and was cut short by an abrupt gesture from the prince.

 

“Do as I say. Or do you find me incapable of defending myself against a girl?” The tone had been mild and considerate, one she hadn’t heard being used with the others and was surprised to hear. They must have gone back a long way, these two, Zahara concluded. The giant Samarran — she figured from his obvious red hair and the tattoo on his face — seemed to have held a special status among his subjects and was apparently being tolerated a lot more by the prince.

 

“No, my lord, of course not,” Ghaul replied, still not without a hint of discomfort in his tone. She imagined it would have been his axe that killed her had he succeeded in convincing the prince to let him stay a little longer. To her disappointment, he simply offered a quick bow, took a glance at the two obsidian blades on the nearby chest, and headed reluctantly towards the exit.

 

“And Ghaul,” the prince called, at which the Samarran paused and turned abruptly. “Take a case of wine and have that wound on your arm looked after. We have a long ride tomorrow. You fought well today.”

 

The wound, she only noticed when he’d mentioned it, had been covered quite completely by his sleeve and wouldn’t have been noticeable had it not been from the blood that was seeping through the dark fabric. It made her wonder if the prince had had a prior knowledge of that injury, or if he had simply been that observant. The latter being true could complicate a lot more things for her.

 

Ghaul, beaming now like a fifth hurricane at the compliment, sketched another elaborate bow and left the tent, though not without giving her another murderous glare. 

 

It was becoming unreasonable, even downright disturbing, how this prince — this tyrant — of the Black Tower seemed to possess everything that would make him an enemy so difficult to defeat. Power, intelligence, a highly disciplined army, and now a man loyal beyond his post who seemed to have considered his commander a god to be worshipped. To make matters worse, he also happened to know exactly how to hold and nurture such a loyalty. 

 

‘ _Pray_ ,’ her father had said, it echoed back and forth now in her head, ‘ _that he doesn’t make it to the throne_.’ If he was difficult to deal with now, what, she wondered with a chill running down her spine, would they have to deal with when he controlled the salasar.

 

“Can you stand?” He held out a hand, at which she ignored and scrambled to her feet. She wouldn’t allow her weakness to show, even though she could hardly feel the left side of her cheek and her ear was still ringing from the blow.

 

The prince smiled and calmly pulled back his hand as he watched her adjust herself patiently. “Sit down,” he gestured to a chair by the table. It had been laid out with only a small amount of food and drink on nondescript silver plates. 

 

Despite being heir to the current salar, he seemed to be unexpectedly far from being a man of excess, now that she had a chance to look around. The tent’s furnishing had been more practical than luxurious. It offered comfort and elegance, but never to the point of being vain. He wore no jewelry besides a signet ring. His hands, she noticed, were those of a man used to wielding weapons on a daily basis rather than one who spent his days in a palace enjoying women and wine. There was nothing soft about this prince who should have been no more than a sheltered, spoiled, overly privileged young imbecile had he been raised in the Tower like all the others. Instead they’d thrown him into prison, gave him a reason to fight, and the hell of Sabha had spat out this exceedingly capable monster who’d destroyed her home. 

 

“Let us talk then,” he said in a formal tone, “like two civilized people on equal grounds. Or should I say, man to man?”

 

She regarded him for a time, searching for a sign of mockery in his expression, and realized that he was actually looking at her as all those things, despite her current status or the state of her clothes. A surprise she might have called pleasant, if only he had been anyone else but the man who’d destroyed her home. 

 

Zahara thought then, of all the khumars who’d sought her hand for marriage over the years, how none of them, despite their words of courtesy, had ever considered her to be anything more than just a girl or a prime breeding stock for oracles and bharavis. In her stubbornness and pride she had refused them all, and told her father she would only marry a man who didn’t find her lack of penis a disability. How ironic it was, that she should now find such a man but on the wrong side of the desert, among the people they’d considered barbaric and lacking in honor, who happened to also be someone she most needed dead.

 

Adjusting her own robe to cover the torn and tattered dress underneath as well as to rearrange her state of mind, Zahara drew herself straight and walked as steadily as she could to seat herself on a different chair from the one he’d gestured towards. He smiled at that, and picked up the pitcher to fill a plain silver goblet. There had been three on the table. He must have been in the habit of sharing drinks with his men, or women.

 

“Do you take wine?” he asked and proceeded to pouring her one without waiting for a response. “It’s the finest Samarran we have on reserve. The texture is superb if a little too intense from being in the heat,” explained the prince as he handed her the drink. “I find it washes down the blood rather well. Perfect for the occasion, don’t you agree?”

 

She sneered at the implication before taking the offered cup. “Perhaps,” she said, swallowing the  blood that was still seeping from her lips. “Is it poisoned?”

 

He took a seat on the opposite side of the table and leaned back leisurely on the cushion. “It could be,” he said, nursing the wine in his hand. “But then you’re not afraid of dying, are you? That is the Shakshi way of life, is it not? _All lives spring from the will of Ravi, and in death rejoin her, in love and honor, through the grains of sand._ ”

 

Dark, intelligent eyes stared at her in a challenge as he quoted, in perfect Shakshi, a phrase from the _Passage of Life_.

 

“Ah, the prince reads,” she said in a mocking tone that might have earned her another blow had his fanatic giant of a guard been around, “or is heresy a thing in the Black Tower these days?” She sipped the content of her cup, twice, making sure he could see it. 

 

“I’m afraid I’m not pious enough to be considered a heretic for any religion, but my position does require that I show faith in Rashar. As for reading, what was it they say, … _one must first gain a place in the enemy’s mind before he seeks to gain more?”_

 

The prince, as it turned out, didn’t simply read, but read excessively. _The Secret Journal of Eli the Conqueror,_ was not a copy that was easy to come by or one that could be found lying about in storage to be picked up by a bored prince. The text itself had also been written in old Khandoori and was considered one of the most difficult to decipher. She wasn’t sure what disturbed her more, the fact that he seemed to be everything she would look for in a man, or that he possessed everything she’d long feared her enemy would have.

 

 _“And stray not from the path of righteousness,”_ she said, taking another sip of her drink. “You should have poisoned the wine. It’s a waste of time and effort to think you can get the location of Citara from me.”

 

He raised a brow in surprise when she’d finished quoting the rest of the passage, and then made a small sound in his throat that suddenly put her on edge. Still keeping his eyes on her, the prince reached over to take a single grape from the silver plate between them, rolling it back and forth in his hand before popping it into his mouth. He looked, and licked his fingers as he did, as if he was exploring the taste of her, and discovering a liking for it. 

 

“I will tell you what’s wasteful,” he said, rubbing his thumb up and down the stem of the silver goblet. “The lives of our soldiers who died today. The cost of sustaining a campaign in the desert when it could have been used to build roads and dams and feed a city during famine. How long have we been at war, do you think? Two hundred years? Perhaps more? How many lives have been lost, _how many more_ would be if this continues?” He paused, took a sip of his drink, and placed it back down on the table, leaning slightly forward as he did. “We can end it now, you and I, on this table, over wine. Give me Citara, and I will give your people the freedom to continue living in the desert. It will be as before. No one has to die. Nothing has to change. I can give you my word.”

 

She smiled thinly at that. It sounded like a handsome offer, as handsome as the man who’d offered it on the surface, and just as poisonous underneath. “Nothing has to change,” she repeated in an overly sweet tone, “except that we bend the knees, allow your soldiers to pass through the desert without fees and settle in our lands without tributes. Let me guess,” she paused to drink, to give it the effect she needed, “you will take control of our oasis and tax us for water and all our trades. Our children will be sold as slaves if we refuse, our men killed for breaking the slightest of _your_ laws. Tell me, is this the freedom you intend to give us? To continue living in _our_ land _?”_

 

“In exchange for peace and protection, yes,” he added, as-a-matter-of-factly.

 

“We are adequately at peace and well protected, if you had been content with your side of the desert. What you offer is rotten from the inside. I’m not as naive as you think I am to fall for your empty promises. You are wasting both your words and your wine.”

 

“Am I?” He asked, not smiling now. The playful, amused expression had been replaced with something colder and much more disturbing than what she’d seen earlier that evening. “You speak of peace when your khagans continue to fight among themselves every time an opportunity arises. The Shakshis have been killing each other for centuries with or without an interference from the Salasar. This land you are trying so hard to protect have tasted more blood by your own doing than what we have shed in the past two hundred years. We do not wage war on our own people, you do. Who’s being naive now?”

 

It was true, and no man alive in the White Desert or the Black would have denied the long existence of conflicts between the khagans. Territory disputes happened on a daily basis, and the kha’as did nothing but plan for attack or to be attacked by another. They were violent people, she wouldn’t deny that, no one would, but it was who they were as much as it had been their way of life for centuries. Right or wrong, it wasn’t for anyone to judge, and definitely not for a Rashai who understood nothing of life in the desert.

 

“It is the price of freedom that you will never understand,” she said sharply, allowing the anger she’d been withholding to show, “as long as your people cower behind walls and abandon all their pride for the comfort of the city and the meaningless wealth it gives. You can cage an animal until it feels content and call it an offering of peace and protection, but that is not what we will ever allow ourselves to be. We will fight each other because we are free to fight, and we’ll take our chances in these mountains even if it means a lifetime of struggles and conflicts for a life without boundaries. You speak of freedom when you have no clue what it truly means. That is why you have never been able to conquer the White Desert, why you never will. I will have more, if you don’t mind,” she placed the cup down on the table, pushing it forward. “It does go well with blood.”

 

He stilled for a time, watching her intently from across the table. She returned the gesture, waiting and making herself ready for the next blow to come. The truth was, she wanted to be anywhere but on that table, to be out of that tent, away from this man who was threatening to undo her in more ways than one both physically and emotionally. She had been expecting a different kind of foe. A blood-thirsty, arrogant, brainless prince whose ego was too large for his own land to satisfy would have been infinitely better than this. Instead she was having an intelligent, sophisticated arguments with a man who seemed to have a clear purpose, a genuine will to end the war between two sides of the desert that had been hurting them both, only he intended to do so by taking their land and making it a part of the salasar. It was dangerous, too dangerous for her to be sitting there listening to words that were tugging at her conscience, making her question the meaning of too many things she’d been so sure of before. She wasn’t at all afraid of being killed, or being tortured by this prince. She was afraid of seeing what he saw, of being proven wrong in everything she’d been brought up to believe and had been trying to uphold.

 

He reached for the pitcher and refilled her cup, then his, before leaning back on the chair. “I take it you won’t give up Citara even if I vow to kill every living soul here today.” 

 

It was spoken in the most unanimated, practical tone possible, as if they’d been discussing the taste of wine on the table. She swallowed the lump in her throat at the sudden image of more women and children being executed on that plain, shut her eyes to quiet the different voices in her head, and replied, “No.” 

 

It would mean more deaths, tremendously more, if they ever find Citara. The sacred city that had been the beating heart of every khagan was where all the collected tributes were sent, where the wealth of the entire White Desert was kept and guarded. All trades for food and necessities were done in Citara, who obtained the goods from Makena, the last independent state in the peninsula protected from the salar’s army by a treacherous mountain range and the White Desert itself. Supplies and controls over the khagans that had been strictly regulated by the city had been the only thing that made their lives in the desert possible. Destroy it, and one destroyed the White Desert as a whole and for good.

 

For centuries, Citara’s location had been their most guarded secret. Only the White Warriors who delivered the tributes and brought back the traded goods to the khagans were told of or allowed to enter the city. Those, and the bharavis and oracles who hadn’t relocated to the city itself. All of whom were required to take an oath of secrecy upon entering the gates. The punishment for breaking such an oath was the execution of the entire three generations of one’s bloodline. 

 

Everyone chose their own death over such an alternative. It was the price and the weight of wearing a zikh, why her father and brothers, and all the White Warriors had not been captured alive. They fought to their deaths or killed themselves before being put to torture. 

 

She would have to find a way to join them soon before she, too, was put to torture. He would never have it, not from her, Zahara thought, trying not to let her gaze linger too long on the small knife on the table.

 

The prince listened, and regarded her quietly for a time. He reached over to pick another grape, played with it in his hand again before putting it in his mouth. “And if I throw you out there as a reward for my men?” There was a different light in his eyes now, a hint of something cold and vile that hadn’t been there before. 

 

Zahara sneered openly at the threat. “It would be predictable,” she said with an edge to her tone, “and disappointing.” He might kill her for that, if she was lucky. 

 

The prince responded with no more than a chuckle in his throat, virtually unaffected by the insult she’d delivered. Slowly, he rose from the chair and walked over to her side, seating himself on the edge of the table next to her. “You are aware,” he said, “that it’s never a good idea to leave a man with so few an option.”

 

“Or a woman.” She raised her chin to meet his eyes. “Understand me. No Rashais will ever set foot in Citara. You will not have the White Desert, in this life or the next. That is my answer. The wine,” she said emptying her cup and then placed it down on the table, intentionally near the silver plate and the knife, “is brilliant.”

 

He smiled, and in the small window of time when he turned back to the pitcher, Zahara jumped off her chair and reached for the blade. Spinning back around, now with a weapon in hand, she saw a way, a clear path that ran straight to his heart and made a decision. The silver tip of the knife gleamed sharply as she plunged it forward, aiming at the spot she knew would kill him in an instant. 

 

The prince, losing none of his composure, slipped out of the way with an ease of a cat and positioned himself behind her. His large, strong hand closed around her neck and slammed her down on her back against the table as if she’d weighted no more than a small child.

 

In the same instance, Ghaul burst into the tent, axe raised and ready to draw blood. The prince, still holding her down with an iron grip raised his free arm and held up a finger in warning. The simple gesture had been enough. Ghaul lowered his weapon, gave a quick bow, and left the tent without another word.

 

He turned back to her, eyes flashing with something frighteningly hard and cold. “I could take you,” said the prince, closing his grip harder around her throat, “right here, right now had I been in a slightly different mood this evening.”

 

She struggled to break free, to breathe, her hands clawing instinctively at the arm that was pinning her down. It made no difference. He was a rock on top of her, and his fingers tightened harder the more she’d tried.

 

“I _have_ thought of it, the moment I heard you recite Eli,” he continued, his chest heaving visibly from anger, or excitement, it was difficult to tell. “But I wanted to give you a chance, to talk and discuss in a more civilized manner, to see if we could end this war without being barbaric to each other. Apparently, you disagree.”

 

He took a sharp breath and exhaled, as if to still a need that was threatening to overcome his reasons. It subsided, though not quite completely. His body still stiffened, and the muscles on his arm was still unnecessarily tight despite the little effort needed to hold her down. 

 

“And perhaps you’re right,” he said. “Perhaps I don’t understand your people well enough to conquer the White Desert. Perhaps there is also something I can do about my own ignorance.”

 

In a single, forceful motion, he dragged her down to the edge of the table where he’d been standing. The hand around her throat tightened, holding her in place as he lowered himself down to her, his lips hovering just above her left ear. 

 

“I’m not going to kill you, or send you out there to be defiled by my soldiers,” the words, spoken in a mere whisper felt like fire against her skin. “You will live, with me, in the Black Tower, as my prisoner, _my_ bharavi, _my_ wife. You will bear me a son, and he’ll grow, as a Rashai, a prince of the Black Tower, who will return to raid your land in the name of the Salasar. We will see, you and I, if you and your people really cannot be conquered. I will do this thing, or you can give up Citara, here and now, and no one has to die. This is your last chance. What will it be, bharavi?”

 

She gathered her breath, despite the way her stomach was turning at the thought of what he’d intended to do to her, and delivered the words that she knew would lead to exactly that outcome, “I would sooner kill my own child before I let you have such a satisfaction. You _unimaginable_ monster!”

 

She had known something about what would follow, had anticipated it when she’d decided to aim the knife at him and not her own heart in the case that she failed. What she hadn’t anticipated was how far he could go, how inventive he could be in making her pay for such a mistake.  He smiled then, in the way that made her skin crawl and her hair stand on end. “Allow me,” said the prince, “to show you the kind of monster I can become. Jarem!”

 

In the time it took a man to take three steps forward, the same advisor who’d been with him in the general’s tent emerged promptly at the entrance. “My lord.” The salute was executed in a precise, spotless manner, as if it had been the salar himself he was addressing.

 

“How many prisoners do we hold?” He’d released her by the time Jarem had entered, and was now pouring himself a new drink as he spoke.

 

Zahara pushed herself off the table, adjusting her clothes absentmindedly as she did and realized that her hands were trembling uncontrollably. The prince, now standing a few steps away, was watching her from the corner of his eyes as he waited for the answer — one she wished she hadn’t been there to hear.

 

“Eight thousand two hundred and fifty-three, my lord.” It was delivered without a pause, but with utmost precision down to the last digit.

 

 _Eight thousand prisoners._ Feeling her head beginning to spin, she wrapped her fingers instinctively around the back of a chair for balance. She was going to be sick.

 

“How many women and children?”

 

The figures, spoken as if he’d been reading off a scroll, had also been offered to the last digit. “If by children you mean under ten, my lord,” he added. 

 

The prince nodded, sipped his wine and delivered a command as precise as the statistics he’d just been given, “Pick one of the women and give her to the soldiers. When they’re done with her I will have her killed and her head on a spike. Tell the other prisoners one of them will be killed in a similar manner every time their precious bharavi disobeys or so much as raises her voice at me. If she takes her own life, or mine, everyone will die, all eight thousand of them. I will have it known it is one of their own who will be responsible for their deaths. I want this done tonight, close by, where she can hear it.”

 

Jarem paused a little, obviously finding the command a cause for concern. “My lord, the salar may wish to sell a number of these prisoners.”

 

“He can wish,” said the prince, smiling sardonically at his advisor now, “or he can buy them from me. The Vilarhiti is mine if I can take it, so are these prisoners, that is the agreement. They are to be given quarters among the deserters when we return to Rasharwi. I want them untouched and kept healthy for my new bharavi wife to slaughter. Go. And have someone bring her a change of clothing before she freezes to death.”

 

Jarem smiled, evidently proud of his prince before offering another perfect a bow and left the tent. 

 

Still gripping hard on the chair, Zahara watched him go to execute the command with a nauseating feeling that suddenly took over all her senses. In her mind was an image of herself, falling fast into a dark void whose bottom she couldn’t see. She wanted to throw up, to claw at her face, to scream, only none of it would have made a difference.

 

If there had been a ground underneath her feet, she could feel nothing of it now. Those words, a promise of a life-long torture, of being stripped bare of the freedom she so loved, had taken from her the last valuable thing that she’d intended to keep to her grave. All because she’d made one simple mistake with a knife that was now lying at her feet. She should have been dead long ago, and now even that much freedom had been taken from her.

 

They were alone again. Two figures, in a simple tent lit by hurricanes, holding the fate of the peninsula in their palms. He turned, picked up the knife that had fallen onto the floor and walked over to sit on the edge of the table exactly where he’d been before. 

 

“I’m curious,” said the prince, turning the knife back and forth in his hand as he seemed to be entertaining a thought, “as to how life is measured in the White Desert. What gives you the right to decide that the lives of eight thousand people — or one — was a worthy sacrifice for Citara, for _your_ idea of freedom?” 

 

He flipped the knife over and offered it to her by the handle. “Here’s a chance to prove your point. Take the knife, and stab it into your own heart or in mine. Decide again, as deliberately as before, how willing you are to spend the lives of those people based purely on what you believe in. Do you think they still want to live, now that they are my prisoners? Isn’t that why I would never be able to take the White Desert? Because all of them would rather die than live without your so-called freedom?” Cold, dark eyes stared at her as he pushed the knife closer to her hand. “Show me, how strongly you believe that to be true.”

 

How, Zahara thought, looking down at the knife that was gleaming temptingly in his hand, did one measure a life — or eight thousand of it — against an ideal? None of them would ever return to the desert now, not after being branded as prisoners of the salasar. Their lives in the White Desert had already been forfeited to them and their children, forever, and for generations to come. In ten or twenty years they’d be considered deserters or residents of Rasharwi, their knowledge of culture and tradition would soon be lost behind the enemy’s walls. Their spirit, honor, and love of freedom would be gone like the ashes of their homes that was still scattering in the wind that day. In the eyes of Citara and its devis, they would have been considered lost and as good as dead. No one would blame her if she killed herself now, for her pride, her honor, for the love of her people and what she believed they represented. It would send a strong message, that they could not be conquered, that Citara would never fall. What was eight thousand lives, against twenty times more, against a thousand years of tradition and generations that would be lost if she failed to uphold it today?

 

What if she was wrong? What if all they wanted was peace and prosperity, or a chance to live free from the fear of being raided, or of not enough food and water, for children to grow safe and sound behind walls? Who was she to decide that they were no longer her people to protect if they became Rashais, that eight thousand lives were worthless, the moment they stopped representing her ideals? They’d been her people yesterday, they were still her people now, tomorrow, and the day after. She too, would never return to the White Desert, not after this. Would that make her less than what she had been the day before? She had no right to decide such things. Not without becoming the same monster she wanted dead.

 

There had been no choice left for her, none that she could see. There would never be again, for the rest of her life, not after this.

 

Exhaling the breath she’d been holding, Zahara closed her eyes for a time and forced herself to look straight at him. To remember the moment, the hour, and the face of the man who’d done this to her. She swore, inwardly, that she would live for as long as it took, even if she had to crawl and beg for her life, to see him die.

 

“I thought so,” said the prince, taking the knife away and placing it down on the table. “You think I’m a monster, but are we so different, you and I? I’ll kill for what I believe in, and so will you.” 

 

He rose to his feet, his large shadow looming over her small, bruised and beaten frame. “You think you’re better than me, and your people better than mine,” he continued, his thick, penetrating voice carried far and deep into her memory. “I’ll show you just how corruptible they can be, how easily it would be for me to crush them just like all the others. I _have_ conquered the White Desert, even if a small part of it, here, today, and I will have more. The Vilarhiti is mine, so are its eight thousand survivors who are now citizens of Rashawi, and so are you. You _have_ been defeated, and from this day onwards you will live and die under my command. Kneel, bharavi!”

 

And that night, on the plain below the majestic snow-capped peaks of the Vilarhiti that had stood strong and unconquered for centuries, Zahara could see it all came tumbling down as she — the last free soul of the valley, the first bharavi to have ever been captured alive and forced to bend the knees — knelt, in all her shattered pride and honor, to the man who would later become the supreme ruler of the salasar.

 

“Good,” said the prince in a slightly altered tone than before. “I hope you are now sufficiently motivated to give me your name.”

 

 

***

 

Zahara closed her eyes and pushed away the memory that had been like a knife in her heart whenever it resurfaced. Eighteen years had done nothing to dull the edge of that knife, but she was older now and wise enough to know how and when to sheath such a blade. It would never stop wounding her, but what had been lost had been lost, and she had other things to protect now. “I think I’ll wear white tonight,” she said. White was the color of her people. He liked it when she appeared a little defiant.

 

“I’ll bring the moonstone,” Kiara said, grinning at her knowingly. She was glad to have Kiara with her. No one else would have understood so clearly what was in her mind, or accepted the choices she had made without judging her for it. “Get ready. The salahari will be down there soon.”

 


	6. My Favorite Son

 

The sun was low on the horizon. Lasura shifted his weight as he sat atop the nondescript bay colt waiting for the trackers’ return. The large, excessively decorated leather saddle had never been a thing he could ever get used to. He was trained on military and traditional Shakshi saddles, and had always preferred those despite their simplicity. They offered a lot more comfort, especially for a long ride, and they were less of a burden on a horse. That afternoon’s ride may not have been considered long, but after two hours he was starting to feel the effects from the lightly cushioned seat and the hard leather.

 

Next to him, Azram seemed to be suffering no discomfort on his white stallion, or he did but had been too used to enduring such pains. Azram’s saddle — much more decorated than his own, of course — was a display of status more than anything else a saddle was supposed to be, complete with all its gold studs and trimmings to add to the pain of sitting on hard, embossed leather. Status was everything in Rasharwi, as with other big cities, and Rasharwi was as big as they came. As far as Azram was concerned, no son of the Salar should ever be seen riding on anything less, especially as a part of his grand entourage. And so, thanks to his kind regards and thoughtfulness, Lasura had also been made to ride on this princely thing that was going to make him sore for the next two days.

 

At least his didn’t come with studs, he thought wryly.

 

The summon had come without warning shortly after midday. The instructions had called for him to meet at the stable within the next half hour — an amount of time that didn’t allow one to do much considering the distance from one point to another in the Tower and the steps to be climbed between them. He’d simply put on a robe and a pair of riding boots, grabbed himself a bow and a half-empty quiver and went. The horses had already been picked and saddled by Azram’s stable boys when he’d arrived, and there had been no time for him to have it changed to his liking, not that he thought Azram would allow it in any case.

 

It had been done deliberately though, that much Lasura knew, eyeing the obvious difference in his more subtly designed saddle and Azram’s extravagant black and gold one. There was a reason he’d been given a such short notice too, which was to allow him no time to change into anything that might draw more attention than it should. It was the same game all the princes in the Black Tower played on a regular basis. With rights to the throne being fair game, one did what one could to gain the attention of the Salar by trying to stand out in one way or another, and discrediting competitions was one of them.

 

The ridiculous thing about it was, that he wasn’t even competition, not where the crown was concerned. It just so happened, however, that to the public’s eyes he was the son of his favorite wife — if such a thing was to be judged by the frequency at which the Salar bedded a wife or desired one to accompany him during public appearances — and therefore an obvious target above which other sons should try to rise. Hence, the saddle and the lack of time to change out of his plain black tunic.

 

It hadn’t always been so though, Lasura thought, remembering the time when he could almost run around in the Black Tower unnoticed and largely forgotten. The competition among wives may have always been there, and the information regarding his mother’s chosen dress or jewels or the way she decided to wear her hair for any reception of the Salar was still being sought after and highly paid for by all his other wives including the Salahari. Such attention, however, had never extended to him until two or three years ago, when all the princes had reached an age to start thinking about and planning for the throne. While it had been bound to happen sooner or later, the event that had brought this fierce competition among princes to its full-blown scale had been the day the Salar decided to take him out for the first time as a hunting companion two years ago. He didn’t do that often, but the fact that he’d so far taken no other sons but that of his Shakshi wife hadn’t gone unnoticed by the princes or their mothers.

 

Which was likely why Azram had demanded that he joined the hunt that afternoon in the Black Desert mountain area near Sangi fortress where the Salar had been expected to pass on his way back to Rasharwi. Many advantages could be gained from this event if all things were to go as planned. A fox hunt that deep in the desert, if successful, would give him a chance to offer the Salar the rare and exquisite trophy of a ringed-tale black fox only found in the area as a welcome home present. It would also prove Azram a capable hunter and a friend to his father’s favorite son, giving him a chance to be included in future hunts where other sons might not. Hunting sessions had been the only opportunity where one could spend almost the entire day with the Salar, getting to know him, or being recognized by him — the most direct path to the throne, so to speak.

 

A brilliant move for the prince, he had to admit, so brilliant that Lasura wondered if it had been his or the Salahari’s. Azram, he had come to realize, especially now with his wrong choice of saddle and garment, had never been observant or thoughtful enough to have come up with such a plan. It would be interesting to see if he could carry it through, and even then, no one in the Black Tower had been as unpredictable as the Salar when it came to whether or not an attempt to impress him would end up being considered impressive or a huge mistake. Had Azram been any less arrogant he might have thought about seeking the so-called favorite son's advice on how to do this right, and he might have even given it if only for the sake of saving his behind from the agony of this goddamn saddle. He could also be kind and offer some warnings even without being asked, but he figured if these entitled princes continued to remain ignorant to the fact that he might know something they need to gain such a favor from their father, he might as well remain ignorant of such a need and entertained himself watching them fail miserably for it. After all, he deserved some reward for being dragged around like goat to be humiliated and sacrificed by these princes.

 

It was also why he’d neglected to mention a rather suspicious shadow he’d seen behind a rock along the way before the trackers had been sent out. The Salar, being an excellent tracker himself, had always enjoyed tracking his own game. He brought with him an astonishingly small party to any given hunt, or he brought none at all when the grounds had been considered safe enough to do so alone. It had given Lasura enough opportunities to observe and learn these skills quite closely from his father, to the point where he could now aid the Salar in spotting a prey. There had been no lessons taught during these hunts though, despite what the other princes might have assumed. Wisdom and skills were to be acquired by experience and observation, and those who failed to acquire it so are considered a waste of time to teach, that much the Salar had made clear. He was as far from being a caring father as possible, but Lasura had come to realize that it was in this way that he tested the capabilities of his sons — by removing himself as an influence completely. It would, however, be a serious mistake for any of them to think he wasn’t watching everything they did. Very few things escaped his notice whether or not he chose to address them.

 

Perhaps he should have said something about the shadow, Lasura thought wearily. He was beginning to regret that decision after having waited for the trackers to return for almost an hour now. The fox, if he’d been correct, would have been long gone since then. Azram would surely try this again if the hunt was to fail that day, and he wasn’t looking forward to yet another outing on this saddle.

 

To his relief, the two trackers they’d sent out returned shortly after. Two young males had been spotted just east of them. It wasn’t uncommon to find more than one at a time. Juvenile ringed-tails tend to stay in groups until they found a mate. Azram snapped a command for the guards to secure the area as he unhorsed to pursue them on foot. There were too many places for the foxes to hide and disappear into the surroundings for a hunt on horseback, the trackers had said. Lasura had expected this and was rather glad to be out of his saddle more than anything else.

 

The foxes were feeding on a rabbit when they arrived. One a deep red with a splash of orange along its back, the other an exquisite silver with a black mask, both sporting rows of clear, characteristic black rings around the fluffy tails from tip to rump. They were beautiful and prized for the vivid colors of their pelts. The foxes were also easy targets, as long as they could be quiet enough to remain unnoticed and didn’t fail the first shot. He prepped his bow and saw one of the trackers handed Azram his, arrow already notched and ready. From what he knew, Azram happened to be quite capable with his bow, and at that range he wouldn’t miss.

 

Lasura, however, would be expected to miss. An easy enough thing to do, and one he didn’t mind doing. Hunting for sport wasn’t really his thing, especially not when it was being served to him on a plate. It had always been different with the Salar who sometimes returned with no kill at all. During those sessions it had been the difficult climb, the effort taken in tracking down an animal, or the test of how close he could get to any given prey without being noticed that had seemed to excite him. They’d once spent three days on a mountain tracking a cat in the thick forest land of Samarra, and ended up finding its den full of cubs. The mother had turned to face them, her golden eyes blazing as she made herself ready for the attack. His father had smiled then, lowered his bow and ordered the men to stand down. The creature had been, ‘ _too magnificent to die by an arrow,_ ’ he’d said, turning back the way they’d come empty-handed. Those who’d accompanied him on that hunt would agree, that the Salar’s mood coming down that mountain had never been more pleasant. They would also agree, that it had also been the case on the way up. He’d grinned like a boy overcame by fascination over a new toy every time they'd lost track of the cat. It had been one of the most memorable hunts he'd had, accompanying the Salar, which, as a consequence, was making that hunt with Azram entirely useless and uninteresting to him — if not also undermining where skills and pride were concerned.

 

In truth, he could have turned down the invitation, or simply asked to stay behind with the horses instead of tagging along for the sole purpose of being humiliated. But there were unwritten rules and protocols in the Black Tower as with any court in the world, and the failure to observe such things could put one in a highly complicated situation. Lasura didn’t like his life complicated, and compared to the consequences of pissing off one of these princes and their mothers, a minor humiliation was considered nothing more than a nuisance. They couldn’t have him killed, by decree of the Salar, but then death wasn’t the only thing they could suffer him with, and their father never concerned himself with petty quarrels amongst princes. An issue had been brought up to him once. He’d made sure all parties involved were whipped enough times to know he would never hear of such things again. It still happened, of course, but no one had been stupid enough to bring it up to him the second time, meaning that the princes could do whatever they wanted to each other, so long as he or his mother didn’t die in the process. The possibility of one getting into all kinds of shits in the Black Tower was, therefore, almost limitless.

 

The tracker gave a hand signal, telling them to be ready. He would have to wait for Azram to shoot first, of course, before trying to shoot the second fox himself and fail. The two trackers also had their bows to hand, in the case that Azram’s arrow missed the target. It hadn’t been issued as a command, but that was why one brought extra bows to the hunting ground. They knew their jobs, and so did Lasura, who understood that while the trackers were counted upon to finish the job, he was never to bring down Azram’s fox under pain of death or it would be considered an insult of epic proportions. The same act, done by a different man, could mean an entirely different thing.

 

The first arrow, fired by Azram, hit the silver fox on its shoulder rather than the neck, which would have killed him instantly otherwise. Still able to move freely, the fox leaped up onto the rock nearby in an attempt to flee. At the same time the two trackers shot their arrows, Lasura loosed his at the red who had been turning to run into the bush to the left and missed it by a hand. It got away, of course — that was the whole point. Azram’s target fell to the ground soon after with two more arrows closely embedded in its neck. The trackers had been good, but Azram’s arrow had somewhat ruined the kill, considering that it was the pelt he’d meant offer their father, and that there was now an arrow hole in the best part of it. A beautiful animal, wasted even after death by the hands of an incompetent, egotistic fool, Lasura thought, frowning at the dead fox.

 

Azram, grinning as if the two arrows in the neck had both been his, handed his bow to one of the trackers and turned to him. “I thought I’d left the easier one for you.”

 

“Indeed, you did,” he lied. “It was a difficult shot. Father should be pleased.” It wasn’t, really. They had quite a clear view of the fox.

 

“Too bad he couldn’t have two.” Azram shrugged and mounted himself back on the horse they’d brought up to him. The dead fox was collected by the trackers who then removed and taken back their arrows after turning Azram’s to its quiver. The prince, in his dazzling blue and gold tunic, didn’t want his hands dirty or his clothes soiled from handling his kill. “Come, he should be close to Sangi.”

 

 _At least he had sense enough to watch the time_ , Lasura thought, picking up his missed arrow and climbing back on his horse. He was glad it was about to be over, more than anything else.

 

***

 

They spotted the Salar's company coming out of a valley a few hours before sundown. An entourage of fifty men were with him, with two riders a little ahead to clear the path and two rows of guards flanking left and right of the five wagons that would have contained gifts from the governor of Khandoor. The Salar made a trip to all the five provinces that had once been independent kingdoms now belonging to the Salasar at least once a year. Orders needed to be kept and governors needed to be put in their places before any plan of uprising could be realized. There was always an uprising somewhere around Rasharwi, no matter how long they’d been conquered or how much privileges they’d been allowed. People were people. ‘ _Give them an apple, and they’ll say it’s an orange they need_ ,’ his father had once said. It was a big peninsula to rule, an enormous responsibility, more enormous at times than the power that came with it. Lasura had never quite understood why anyone would want to sit that throne.

 

Ahead of the wagons was Salar Muradi in nondescript black tunic identical to the guards around him. His mount, a magnificent black stallion, was dressed with the exact same military saddle as the rest of his men's. Immediately to his right, Ghaul rode alert and ready, as always, to kill any living thing that came within two steps of his Salar. A royal carriage followed not too far behind. It would be empty, Lasura knew, dragged along only for the purpose of deceiving those who might try to accomplish an assassination.

 

It would have to take a highly ignorant assassin to attack the carriage, Lasura thought, watching the company coming nearer. By the nature of his appearance, it should have been difficult to notice the Salar in his party of fifty men wearing the exact same color, but even with his giant guard removed from being the center of attention, the Salar of Rasharwi would still stand out from a crowd ten times as large. His father’s was a presence that filled rooms and doorways, a figure that demanded an absolute attention in any space he occupied, and Lasura had never gotten used to the way his limbs tended to paralyze momentarily every time he had to share that space.

 

Next to him, Azram's horse fidgeted as it stood waiting, forcing its rider to reign him in several times. He looked up at the prince and realized why. Azram sat on his mount with visibly stiff shoulders, back straight as a spear, his lips stretched thin as he clenched his jaws unnaturally tight. Horses were sensitive creatures. They could always sense the rider’s nervousness or lack of confidence. Even someone as entitled as Azram knew there was no place for arrogance in the presence of his father.

 

He saw Ghaul snapped a command. The two riders in front brought their horses to a gallop and approached them first as per protocol. Once their presence had been checked out and confirmed, one rode back to the main company to inform the Salar, while the other stayed behind to signal the main party another warning should the situation change in any way. One of the things Salar Muradi was notorious for was how thorough he could be over security checks. There was a reason why he’d survive to become what he was — or why the other princes hadn’t. One might have called it an act of cowardice, but so far such a person hadn't existed in the Salasar as far as he knew, or if he had his existence hadn’t lasted long enough for Lasura to hear of it.

 

Azram urged his horse forward a few steps to position himself ahead of their group as the Salar’s company reached them. The prince bowed smoothly to his father then drew himself up straight and tall on his horse. Azram looked like a prince, and his court manner had always been spotless, He wondered though, if such a thing mattered to the Salar as he offered his less than princely salute.

 

“Welcome home, father,” said Azram, signaling for the tracker to bring forward the kill. “We were out hunting in the area and saw you coming out of the mountains. I caught you something.”

 

It had to appear as a coincidence, that much Azram knew. The Salar had always been suspicious of those who had gone out of their ways to lick his boots. He doubted it would be seen as such by his father, but sometimes one could get away with putting up an effort to conceal it.

 

The tracker brought the dead fox over to the Salar. Ghaul steered his horse between the two and reached for it in his place, draping the kill over his own saddle. His father, who had yet to say a single word, glanced over at the animal, and then at both his sons, running his eyes up and down both their forms and the horses. The silence that ensued was a crippling one, and he was willing to bet even Azram was holding his breath. The first word from the Salar always felt like a death sentence, precisely because sometimes it literally was.

 

“I see,” said the Salar with a grin that made Lasura wish he had something to cover his head with. He had come to know that smile, that look in his eyes, and what it was that his father was truly seeing. At least he seemed amused more than pissed. “Only one?” The question was directed at him.

 

It wasn’t a difficult question to answer, but when it came from the Salar, everything became complicated. Lasura considered his choices for a moment. On one hand, he could tell the truth and risk damaging Azram’s ego, on the other, he could lie and risk insulting the Salar’s intelligence. He might just be able to avoid both, however, if he chose his words carefully enough. “My aim was a little off today.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. His aim had been off, whether or not it had been deliberate.

 

The Salar studied him for a time. Lasura held his gaze despite the way his skin pricked like he was coming down with a fever. Above them, an eagle was soaring high in the sky, whistling a distinctive, high-pitched sound that he had come to know by heart.

 

The Salar looked up at the eagle, and then back at him and nodded. “The bird, Lasura.”

 

It had been one of the ways he signaled during a hunting session — a quick glance at the prey, and a characteristic nod to give permission. Without delay, Lasura unslung the bow from his shoulder, notched an arrow and made his aim. It would have to be done swiftly, if at all.

 

He didn’t want to shoot the bird, especially one as rare and magnificent as the spotted eagle of the Black Desert. But a command from the Salar was a command, and between his life and that of whatever it was he wanted dead, Lasura chose his without much hesitation. Clearing his mind to focus on the target, he drew a breath, calculated the timing, and released the arrow.

 

It missed by a hair.

 

He looked at his father, hoping that it wouldn’t be seen as a calculated attempt to fail. The Salar nodded. “Again.”

 

He notched another arrow, recalculated the speed and distance of his target, and released. This time it went through the chest cleanly. The eagle screeched a piercing cry before it fell to the ground. He released the breath he’d been holding, feeling a mixture of relief and pity for the magnificent creature. More of a relief, if he were to be honest with himself. There were several things he could imagine happening should the Salar regard his failed attempts to be deliberate, and probably as many he couldn’t.

 

It hadn’t been deliberate — he was smart enough to know how well his father could see through an act. The first shot had truly been a mistake. He hadn’t shot at a flying target often, except during tournaments where he had been required to enter — and expected to lose. His archery skills had been taught by Shakshi warriors in Gray, handpicked by his mother, of course, and they only hunted for the meat, sometimes for the fur they needed as a necessity to stay warm. To them, killing birds was seen as a waste of both animal and arrow, and so they’d never practiced on such a target. He also remembered his father saying something of the sort, and so far had only seen him hunt land animals. There was, however, a purpose to that day’s command, as always. Every act had a purpose when it came to Salar Muradi, someone had taught him that very early on.

 

In many ways, it wasn’t that difficult a shot. Spotted eagles were large enough, some with wingspan as wide as three arm’s length, and this particular one had been flying low. They were rarely hunted and therefore hadn't been as fearful of people as they should. Lasura considered himself pretty good with his bow. Growing up training with Shakshi warriors who’d taken him out often into the desert for days at a time to make sure he knew how to survive would make a competent archer out of anyone with half a brain. Being a prince of the Black Tower, he didn’t think he would need survival skills in his lifetime, but what his mother wanted, he did. Deny her something, and she could make his life more miserable than the Salahari and her son combined.

 

“The next time you want to kiss Azram’s princely behind,” said the Salar. “Do so when I’m not around.”

 

A lesson taught with the life of a precious bird. A message for both his sons. That was the way his father did things. Next to him, Azram shifted uncomfortably on his mount as if feeling the saddle for the first time. He opened his mouth to speak, but was smart enough to close it without a word.

 

For Lasura, it required an acknowledgement. “There won’t be a next time,” he said and checked himself before allowing his head to drop too apologetically. That, too, had been known to irritate him. Anything of excess irritated him. “May I have permission to retrieve the bird?”

 

The Salar nodded. “You may.”

 

Guiding the horse with his legs, he trotted to the eagle that had fallen a short distance away behind the Salar’s company. When in range, he made a point of leaning over to the side to pick up the bird without getting off his horse — a show of competence he wouldn’t have done in front of Azram on other occasions. His father, having seen him done so many times, would be expecting it, and he wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice in one day.

 

The bird had been a fully grown female, judging from the coloring of its feathers. Lasura only had time to glimpse at the eagle as he rode back to the party and knew that something was still attached to its foot. Pulling the horse to a stop as he reached his father, he looked down and saw a freshly killed sand squirrel being clutched tightly by the talons. A female carrying food back to her nest, he thought. _A nest full of chicks in it._

 

Without thinking — a deadly, and stupid, _stupid_ thing to do in front of the Salar— he looked up at the mountain that rose majestically behind them and saw his father turning to the same direction. Their gazes returned moments later to meet in a wordless exchange of understanding they often had during their hunting sessions.

 

A hint of smile appeared at the corner of his father’s lips. “You think you can get them.” It was a statement, not a question.

 

Lasura drew a breath and began to consider the consequences. “I’ll miss the reception,” he said, looking at the Salar straight in the eyes, “but I can try.”

 

“You can ride back with me to the reception, or you can go get them,” he said pulling his horse to the side to continue his ride back to the Tower. “If you choose to go, you come down with the birds or you don’t come down. A man does not try. He does or he dies doing it. What will it be?”

 

A hard choice, considering that he might still die after having done it either by the hands of his mother for risking his neck over some stupid birds, or by one — or more — of the princes who would consider it an attempt to rise above his status. On the other hand, riding back to the reception could make him a son no longer worthy of accompanying him to the hunts, which would in turn lower his status in the Tower, allowing all sorts of crap to come back into his life and ridding him of many privileges he’d enjoyed. Either way, he was considered fucked. Why, in the name of Ravi — or Rashar in this case as he was among fifty Rashais — did he have to look at the damn mountain?

 

Lasura swallowed the bile in his throat, and asked himself the two remaining questions that might have made it worthwhile: Did he want to do it, and if he could live with being a disappointment on top of being the good-for-nothing halfblood son that he already was if he didn’t take the chance?

 

 _Yes and no,_ he thought. It really wasn’t much of a choice. He gave his father a wry smile. “Can I have a change of saddle?”

 

The rare, resonating laugh that followed would be heard and remembered by the company of more than fifty men and the two young princes for a long time afterwards. Words would be exchanged in the Tower (they always were) regarding how the Salar’s halfblood son had found a way to entertain his father, and he would likely be showered with attention and gifts from both the ladies at court and the men looking for a quick promotion from now on. He would, unfortunately, also be made to suffer adequately for these things by the princes and their mothers when he returned. _If_ he returned.

 

“And I was so looking forward to see you limp coming down from that thing,” said the Salar amusingly before turning to a soldier nearby. “Get him a new saddle and a flask of water. Ghaul, my cloak.” He made a gesture, and Ghaul, who apparently had been holding on to the bearskin cloak for the Salar handed it to Lasura promptly. “I want it back. Do you understand?”

 

“With the birds in it, I know,” he replied, holding the one thing that was going to mess up his life in the most elaborate way possible with his free hand. He was now officially the only one in the Black Tower the Salar had seen fit to wear his cloak, and he was about to climb one of the most treacherous mountains to get him a nest full of priceless, young, trainable spotted eagles no Salar had possessed for the past hundred years. How many piles of shit could he possibly step into in one day? All because he’d allowed himself to lick Azram’s boots to take an easy way out.

 

Knowing his father, it was probably and precisely because of it. Lasura looked up at the mountain with all its deadly cliffs ahead of him and let out a heavy sigh once the party had left. He would either die tonight unless he remembered all his training, or he would survive only to kiss life as he knew it goodbye for at least the next decade.

 

***

 

The city of Rashawi came alive at night to the sound of bells from the sanctuaries of Rashar. It began at sunset with the silver bell at the temple of Sangi to the west of the city, followed by the southern sanctuary of Suma, then the northern bell tower at Suri, before the golden, most elaborately ornate bell of Sabha sanctuary in the east joined the procession, and then leading the lesser three to finish announcing the departure of the sun god for the day.The four bells would be rung alternately until the last light disappeared, during which time the residents of Rashawi would begin illuminating their streets and homes in preparation for the end of day prayer. In the morning the ritual would begin again, starting at Sabha, to announce the return of Rashar at sunrise.

 

At the heart of the city, protected by the four strongholds of Sangi, Suma, Suri, and Sabha stood the Black Tower of Rashawi. The iconic royal residence of the Salar owed its name from the rooms that had been carved into the rocky face of the jagged, pitched-black mountain that stood twice as high above all the towers of the city. The intimidating beauty of the Black Tower had been one of the most notorious and distinguished landmark of the continent for centuries. There was a common saying, that life in the Salasar was not complete until one witnessed the majesty of the Black Tower and prayed to sound of the four great bells of Rashawi. It was the strength of the continent, the power around which all things rotated, the place where histories were made and the fates of men were decided. The center of the universe for those who resided in the Salasar.

 

At the very peak of such a mountain, in a chamber carved into the very edge of a cliff that accommodated an unobstructed view stretching far beyond the walls of Sabha, towards the glowing ivory mountains of the White Desert, stood the one man who held the power over the rise and fall of cities and empires. The tall, straight-backed, square-shouldered man in his mid-forties showed no signs of age beyond the streaks of gray among the otherwise jet black hair and the fine lines that seemed to have added more wisdom than years to the hard features of his face. Standing on the very edge of the balcony of his chamber, with nothing between him and the plunging depths below, the Salar of Rashawi appeared to have been carved out of a rock —a solid statue that could not be moved or swayed by the howling wind that rushed through the opening. His eyes, deep set and in a piercing shade of blue, were fixed somewhere in the far distance as the last light of Rashar began to fade from the horizon and torches were being lit in the city down below.

 

Jarem izr Said, Commander in Chief of the royal army and right hand man of the Salar, tugged lightly on his fur-lined robe as he stood in front of the desk, waiting to be acknowledged. Depending on his mood and what was on his mind, the paralyzing silence the Salar required before acknowledging the subjects he had summoned could last anywhere from a few breaths to the time it took one to climb the Black Tower on foot. Clarity of thoughts was important when one ruled such an empire, and ideas were too precious to be lost by meaningless interruptions. Cities had been built or sacked from these moments of silence, and men had been thrown, understandably, out that open balcony for breaking them.

 

“I'm listening, Jarem.” The command had been smooth and lacking of emotion. As always, he didn’t turn from the balcony. This was, of course, deliberately done. One did not usually get to observe his expressions during report sessions, not until decisions had been firmly made, and by then he would have already finished putting aside all emotions relating to it.

 

Jarem took a step forward, sketched a bow, and began the ritual of reporting the important events that had occurred in the Salar’s absence. These visits to the four strongholds and the provinces beyond them usually lasted four to six weeks at a time, more if there were problems to be dealt with. During which time Jarem would be put in charge of overseeing Rasharwi, making sure everything was in order, and that his projects progressed as planned. Upon the Salar’s return, Jarem would be summoned to make sure he was up to date with the information that would allow him to resume command smoothly. It was the first thing he did when he reached the Tower, on the same day, and before any reception or activities of leisure one might have expected a ruler to engage in right after a long journey. The Salar, still in his dust-covered riding tunic, looked like he could use a bath and a long, undisturbed rest. Instead, he was standing, straight-backed and alert, listening to Jarem’s long and detailed report and storing every word into memory. Salar Muradi was always working, thinking of solutions to things, or planning something with that incredible mind. Jarem often considered his own discipline and work ethics to be spotless, which was the reason why he’d been as trusted as he was, but compared to his Salar, his qualities seemed suddenly small.

 

 _He hasn’t changed at all_ , Jarem thought, watching the figure standing at the balcony with hands behind his back, casting a large, almost unearthly shadow on the stone floor. The boy he’d brought back from the dungeon of Sabha more than thirty years ago had looked like this when he’d arrived back at court. The young prince, still in his prison garment, hair long and wildly tangled, his face and hands filthy with mud and gravel from labor, had stood exactly this way looking up at the Black Tower as if he’d owned the place and had simply been coming home from a long absence. _‘I want to see,’_ he’d said, eyes gleaming an intense shade of blue as he smiled, staring at the balcony at the top of the tower, _‘what it looks like from up there.’_

 

It hadn’t taken long for Jarem to decide in whose hands he’d wanted to lay down his life and loyalty. From then, he and Ghaul — the prince’s cellmate who’d been taken out of Sabha soon afterwards — had worked tirelessly to pave the way to the throne for the man who was now Salar of Rasharwi.

 

“Anything else?” Asked the Salar when he’d finished, still looking out somewhere towards the mountain.

 

Jarem grimaced at a thought that occurred to him and decided to investigate a little more before voicing it to the Salar. “No, my lord.”

 

The hard, unreadable face turned to look over his shoulder. “You hesitate.”

 

Jarem swallowed as the pair of sharp blue eyes studied him in an attempt to catch something he might let slip. Three decades of being by his side and he would still be considered a liability. Jarem knew he was trusted only as far as his competence went. His loyalty had been tested again, and again, and again, and was still being tested now. It grated him sometimes, and he’d often wondered if he would ever be as trusted as Ghaul. Then again, Jarem also knew in his heart that it had been his disinclination to trust even those closest to him that had made Salar Muradi so indestructible. A sense of pride swelled in him at the thought. He was a soldier more than anything else that he was now, and there truly was no honor greater than being able to serve a man like his Salar.

 

“I have yet to verify the facts,” Jarem said, and saw the approval in those eyes.

 

“Give me the rumor then,” he said, turning around to the table behind him to fill his goblet with the red Khandoor wine he’d brought back from the province and gestured for Jarem to do the same.

 

He offered a slight bow and poured himself one. “There’s been an assassination attempt on Sarasef’s life.”

 

The Salar grinned and sipped his wine. “So, Saracen has decided to make a move?”

 

“That is what I need to verify, but I believe so, yes.” The two brothers had been at odds for years even before Sarasef had taken control of the Black Desert. The very fact that the younger brother had been chosen by their father as the new grand chief had not been taken well, and he and the Salar had been anticipating the conflict for some time. “This may be a good time to take the Black Desert if you wish to do so.”

 

They had, after all, been paying a heavy sum every year to these mercenaries for the past decade. These Black Desert warriors had been making a living from independently raiding Shakshi settlements for as long as they existed. The Salar, seeing an opportunity to increase the tension in the White Desert without sending his own soldiers to their deaths, had opted to support their cause by offering a ridiculously high price on raided goods and prisoners from these mercenaries. It had kept the peace at the borders for a some time even though there had never been an official alliance between them. Jarem had never liked the idea of paying more than market price to these bloodsucking thieves, and had always found them too much of a threat to be left unconquered. It would have been better, he’d always thought, to take the region and dissemble the tribe altogether, and now, with the internal conflict, it would be a good time to do so.

 

"What would I do with the Black Desert?" The Salar shook his head, smiling. “It’s nothing but a useless, barren land full of uninteresting rocks and vultures.” He nursed the wine in his hand, smelling the aroma before taking a sip. “The only valuable thing that damned place produces is its mercenaries who are doing a fine job raiding the Shakshis for us.”

 

“At a price.” A ridiculous price for that matter.

 

“Everything has a price, Jarem. Raids cost money, whether it’s carried out by our soldiers or a hired help.”

 

“They do, my lord, but perhaps less of one if we own them?”

 

The Salar chuckled. “And force a Rishi to fight for our cause? You might as well try to tame a grown eagle while at it. They are what they are because they operate to serve their own interests. I don’t need to kill a beast. I need to find a way to use it.”

 

Jarem hated to admit it, but the Salar had a point. The Rishis — another name they called themselves with — had always been working independently for centuries, bound together less by loyalty to their grand chief but more so by the promise of wealth offered to them and the freedom at which they operated. In many ways, they weren’t so different from the Shakshis, apart from the way they did things. The Black Desert mercenaries were more like an unruly brotherhood than a khagan whose strict rules and well-defined social structures formed a highly functional society. Sarasef and his tribe would be most difficult to subjugate without crushing them altogether, which would be considered, as the Salar had put it, killing a highly valuable beast. But the only way to utilize it… “You want to bind them somehow to our cause,” he said, trying to catch up with the brilliant mind behind those sharp eyes.

 

The Salar nodded. “We need to form a long-term alliance with the Rishis, creating a profitable relationship for both parties, and convince them that it is in their best interest to do what we need done. This conflict is a perfect opportunity to interfere.”

 

It _was_ a perfect opportunity, Jarem thought. They could lend their support to one of the brothers and tie the grand chief to the Salasar. “Are we backing Sarasef or Saracen?”

 

“Saracen is an arrogant, ignorant fool. He would never last more than a year leading them.”

 

Jarem smiled and sipped his wine. His Salar had always been a good judge of character, even when the encounter had been brief. “So we offer Sarasef what he needs to deal with his brother, but how do we make sure he won’t brush us aside the moment he secured his leadership?” They were, after all, thieves and murderers who were as likely to stab them in the back as they were willing to trade with the Salasar.

“We can give him an army, on the condition that it stays to ensure the alliance afterwards.”

 

He nodded. That, they could do. Only… “Sarasef will need some kind of assurance that the army won’t attack them from the inside.” No Rashai soldiers had ever been allowed to enter their territory. It was going to take a figure of some importance to be held as hostage to make him even consider it. “We could offer him a wife. One of the princesses, perhaps?” Marriage always worked to strengthen an alliance.

 

The Salar shook his head, his expression suddenly grew more thoughtful. “Sidra and Majira are not yet ten. They won’t last in the Black Desert, and Sarasef will never consent to a marriage contract on paper.” He took another sip of his wine. “We _can_ send a prince to be fostered. How old are Raoul and Bashir now?”

 

“Fourteen and fifteen, my lord,” Jarem replied. “You approved their marriage to the daughters of the governors of Khandoor and Cakora last year. It may create some tension if you send them.” The alliance between the provinces and Rasharwi had also needed constant nurturing. They could deal with one or two uprising at a time, but more would be a problem. Jarem didn’t think anyone would raise an army against the Salasar, not while Salar Muradi ruled, but he preferred acting in precaution rather than finding a solution to problems, and had taken steps to bind these provinces to them long ago.

 

“And Azram is not an option.” He frowned.

 

“Not without a protest from the Salahari, which will create a problem with Samarra.” The Salar’s first wife may not hold much power in the Tower, but her father, the governor of Samarra, had been one of the most powerful figures in the peninsula that they’d always preferred to keep on their side. To send a grandson he’d been working to put on the throne to be held hostage would be close to lighting a fire in a room full of hay.

 

The Salar gave him a wry smile. “That’s all the sons I have?”

 

Jarem shifted his weight at the answer that suddenly came to mind. It would need to be said, and would solve all the problems at hand, only it revolved around something that had been deemed untouchable for a long time. It was, however, his job to give his Salar the best possible advice, Jarem thought before deciding to risk it. “There is prince Lasura, my lord.”

 

The halfblood prince was their perfect solution. He may be half a Shakshi, but he was a son no less, and also one that would have no use whatsoever otherwise. No governors would marry his daughter to a prince of Shakshi blood, and being what he was, the prince had been forfeited of any position of power in the Salasar. Prince Lasura was expendable, as far as he was concerned. The only problem was, that the Salar seemed to be favoring this son as much as he’d always favored the mother.

 

The silence that ensued told him he’d hit a nerve. Jarem swallowed as he felt a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his forehead. He suddenly recalled the sound the last captain of the royal guard had made on his way down through the balcony after having suggested that his lowly Shakshi wife be placed in a different wing as befitting her status. Then again, that was a different matter that had had to do with the quarrel between royal wives in the Tower. This was a matter of state. The Salar would understand, wouldn’t he?

 

“Lasura is a halfblood,” the Salar said, turning back to the balcony in an angle that made it impossible for his expression to be observed. “He will not hold much value as a hostage.”

 

Jarem had expected this, and knew that it might be true. Still, it was worth a shot. “He is also known as the favorite son by the most favorite wife of the Salar. There’s value in this.”

 

“Is he now?” The tone had been light and considerably thin.

 

“He’s the only one you’ve taken with you to your hunting sessions, my lord. And I believe the whole Tower knows you rarely summon any other wife but Lady Zaharra for the past decade. The other princes and their mothers are beginning to feel it and have made several attempts to win him over to their side. His influence is growing and may alter the balance in the Tower.” He paused and drew a breath, knowing he was on dangerous grounds here. “I don’t want to say this, but…”

 

“You think they’re my weakness.”

 

Jarem swallowed. “I doubt they are,” he said and paused a little to arrange his next sentence correctly. “But it would be better that no one draws such a conclusion.” Sending the prince to Sarasef would not only show them otherwise, it would remove a big piece of interference from the Tower, weaken the power his Shakshi wife held, and at the same time keep her in check by separating the mother and the son. It would send a strong message, that the Salar had no favorites, at least not one so important that he couldn’t sacrifice for the greater good.

 

“Unless, of course, that is your intention,” he added. It could be. Salar Muradi rarely did things without a reason. For all the time Jarem had served him, he’d never allowed emotions to cloud his judgement. He would hate to think a mother and a son would be able to accomplish that now, and had hoped it had been a part of some plan that had yet to be revealed to him.

 

The Salar turned back to face him, deep blue eyes studied his intently as he said, “And what do you think is my intention, Jarem?”

 

Jarem felt the hair on the back of his neck stand at the question. One of the things Salar Muradi didn’t forgive was people making assumptions about him, trying to read his thoughts to manipulate them to their advantage. It wasn’t the first time Jarem had been tested but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous every time it happened. “I am still waiting for you to tell me, my lord, because I can’t seem to see it.”

 

A hint of smile that appeared on his lips told Jarem he’d past the test this time.

 

“I will think on it,” said the Salar. “If he makes it down the mountain.”

 

“He’ll make it.” Jarem smiled confidently. “I am so sure, in fact, that I would suggest holding the reception until he returns with the birds and make a big entrance. Sarasef may turn down a halfblood son, but he won’t turn down one bearing a gift of a young spotted eagle.” For some reasons, he had a feeling it would take a lot more than falling off a cliff to kill this one, and definitely more to kill the mother.

 

“I didn’t know you have so much faith in him.”

 

“He reminds me of a boy I met decades ago. Tough as a pair of old boots, that one,” he replied in his most serious tone.

 

“Is that so?” The Salar raised a brow. “Is he still around, I wonder.”

 

“Very much so, my lord,” he said, raising the goblet in his hand in a salute. “I believe he will be for a long time yet.”

 

A rare smile graced the handsome face that had altered little with time. Every once in a while Jarem would see a glimpse of that carefree boy in the man upon whose shoulders the weight of the peninsula now resided.

 

“Go ahead and hold the reception.” The Salar said. “And do send for my so-called favorite wife while I wait for my favorite son to return.”

 

The tone had been full of mockery, of course. He would never truly admit to having favorites.

 

“Speaking of wives,” Jarem said as he placed the emptied goblet back on the table, “might I suggest you summon the Lady Amelia first, my lord? Her father has been repeatedly inquiring of late as to when he should be expecting a grandson. I believe you have yet to summon her since the night of your wedding.”

 

The hand that was holding the goblet paused just before it reached his lips. He asked, in an expression that was more surprised than irritated, “You will tell me now which wife to bed first and when?”

 

"Only when it concerns matters of state, my lord. That is my job,” he replied with a straight face. “Also, we are, as you can see, a little short of princes and princesses.”

 

"And so I am expected to breed,” said the Salar, this time in a more sardonic tone, "how very thoughtful of you."

 

"A son from a young wife every once in a while sends a good message to your enemy, my lord."

 

“Does it now?” The Salar smiled. He seemed amused more than anything else. “And what message would that be?”

 

“That neither your appetite nor your hunger have been satiated,” he replied. “A man who no longer conquers women can conquer no man. They need to know you are still the man who defeated them, and that you will do so again, and again, and again should the need ever arises, my lord.”

 

A small chuckle rose from his throat. “Well, then. Send her up. I’ll give her a son,” he said. “Send for Zaharra as well. I doubt one would be enough for my hunger or my appetite, if you put it that way.”

 

 

***


	7. Your Walls and Mine

There was a crease on her dress. Zaharra grimaced as she smoothed it out quickly. She must have been curling her hand around it when she’d watched him approach the Tower. Such a detail would not be missed. She had known this from experience and had always made certain there would be none present when she was summoned. He'd always enjoyed being able to read her as much as she'd dreaded being read by him. The man whose door she was standing before enjoyed many things, despite the grimness he displayed to the world at large. One had to be close enough to see it, or be the object of his entertainment to understand.

 

Next to her, Amelia was busy doing just the opposite. Just shy of eighteen years old, the youngest daughter of Zubin izr Mafouz, Rasharwi’s most influential banker and entrepreneur, had both her hands wound tight around the silk of her priceless crimson dress. On her expression was a strange mixture of stress, anticipation, and fear that she’d failed to hide. It didn’t surprise her, nor was it the first time Zaharra had seen such a reaction from those who’d been summoned to this room, woman or man. The Salar tend to have that effect on people, especially those who hadn’t been called often to his private chamber.

 

It had been a little over two months since the wedding. Amelia had been brought into the Tower only days before the Salar’s departure to Khandoor. He’d left almost as soon as the reception was over, and Zaharra knew for a fact that he’d yet to bed her. Which explained why the girl was as shaken as she was now, despite the way she’d been openly looking forward to this moment since the news of his return.

 

She had, indeed, been looking forward to it. For a girl who’d been raised with high expectations, being chosen as a wife of the Salar was as high a status as any woman residing in the Salasar could obtain, save for that of the Salahari which had already been taken. Being izr Mafouz’s daughter, it was no surprise to anyone at court that Amelia’s ambition had driven her towards becoming the new figure of power in the Tower, as opposed to being a mere addition to his existing collection of wives. She had decided from the beginning to achieve this by way of capturing his interest, in hope that it would propel her all the way to the top, perhaps even above the Salahari where influence was concerned. For this reason, Amelia had entered the Tower with no little effort to put both her youth and beauty on display in the most extravagant way possible, with the support of her father’s seemingly limitless funding to make sure she got there.

 

Such an effort, however, had tripled since the day she’d first knelt and kissed the signet ring on his finger. Zaharra could still remember, watching from behind the throne with his other wives, how she'd blushed from her ears down to the cleavage she’d intentionally exposed through her dress’ plunging neckline looking up at him. The fact that he was more than twice her age hadn’t seemed to bother her any more than it bothered the other young women at court with the same ambition and interest, not that it surprised Zaharra. For one thing Muradi had been a strikingly handsome man in his youth who also happened to be aging like an expensive wine. For another, even at forty-two, he was still just as strong and capable as any young man at court, more so, in fact, than all his sons combined from the frequency at which he still trained. Even the ruthless, unforgiving reputation that should have given any girl a second thought seemed to be giving him an edge that glinted sharply like a well-cut ruby instead. That said, the very fact that he had power — _immense power_ — would have eclipsed all his flaws in any case had he possessed some. It just so happened, that he possessed none where the general public and ambitious fathers were concerned, which was why Amelia hadn’t been the first young girl to have fallen head over heels for him at first sight. Zaharra, of course, had an entirely different view on this issue. Having had one’s entire family slaughtered in a single day by a man tended to distort one’s perspective of him to a certain degree.

 

Amelia's infatuation with the Salar that has grown from business into something a lot more personal had caused quite a stir while he'd been away. Over the past two months she'd managed to interfere with not only the housing arrangements of the royal household but also the balance of power in the Tower. Alliances changed and loyalty faltered when enough coins were involved, and coins were what Amelia had in almost an unlimited amount. So far, she'd managed to win over the Salahari's most favorite jeweler, and every new batch of silk from Makena now went to her before his other wives for the first pick. Her servants outnumbered that of the Salahari's now, and the high-ranking officers at court surrounded her like flies, hoping to gain favors from the Salar through his promising new wife and her father’s gold. All the while Jarem who’d been in charge of the Tower watched and did nothing, as though finding this in influence a profitable one. The Salahari and his other wives, as anyone might have expected, had turned their attention and talons from his Shakshi wife to Amelia instead.

 

Which should have been a good thing had the Salar not decided to summon her to his chamber instead of his new, young wife right on their wedding night — an insult that automatically landed Zaharra on Amelia’s shit list in the process. Since then she’d suffered anything from minor humiliation to having parts of her own living quarter turned into the girl’s personal space whenever she saw fit. The latter, an accomplishment no other wives had ever managed without upsetting the Salar, had been achieved so proficiently by way of creating indirect circumstances that had forced Zaharra to surrender them by her own will, leaving her hands clean in the process. Amelia knew what she was doing, and had both the drive and the means to never stop until she got what she wanted, and what she wanted was the undivided attention from the man who ruled the peninsula.

 

Taking a glance at their reflection on the pair of gold-plated doors before her, Zaharra could see thepossibility of this being accomplished. Standing next to her, Amelia offered a contrast that wouldn’t be considered undesirable for any man alive. She was tall, slender, and well endowed with fuller hips and a noticeably slim waist compared to Zaharra’s smaller and straighter frame lacking in such womanly curves. Her long, jet black hair — the complete opposite of Zaharra’s silver — curled neatly on either side of her half-exposed, shapely breasts, offsetting the smooth, alabaster skin that nearly glowed in the dark — a complexion that was considered undesirable and sickly in the White Desert but desirable in Rasharwi. Zaharra, by contrast, had always been praised by her almost brown, honeyed skin where she’d come from.

 

Any man, by nature, would appreciate the changes Amelia could offer, and he seemed to have realized that now to have summoned her as soon as he’d returned. In a way, it would be a good thing for her if the girl could indeed capture his attention. She would then be excused and soon forgotten, left to her own elements to live out the rest of her days without having to endure his cruelty. He might even allow her to relocate to one of the Shakshi quarters in the city if she was lucky.

 

 _If only life were that simple._ She sneered at her own childish thought. By then she knew better than to expect such a miracle, which was the reason why she had been doing whatever she could to hold his interest. The moment she became no more than one of his boring wives, her life and that of her son would be expendable. They wouldn’t last in the Tower for more than a season, her having been a pebble in the Salahari’s shoe for the past seventeen years and Lasura in all the princes’ for almost as long.

 

It couldn’t be allowed to happen, not if she was to save her son and keep the promise she’d made a long time ago. His interest in her had to be kept going. His desire to conquer and reconquer a bharavi — a living symbol of the White Desert he’d yet to claim — had to be stretched and rekindled for as long as she needed to stay alive. For that matter, Amelia wasn’t just competition. She was a threat where her goals were concerned, which explained the anxiety Zaharra was also experiencing as she waited to be summoned that night.

 

She was certain though, that she knew a thing or two more than any woman in the Tower regarding his habits — what he despised and what excited him. How he liked to be intrigued and entertained. Which was why she had chosen a high-collared, traditional white dress that clearly stated her origin instead of a more revealing one Amelia had thought would do the trick. It wasn’t exactly a wrong choice in general. Most men succumb to desire when enough flesh was displayed and the woman inviting.

 

The man she was trying to catch, however, wasn’t most men. Anyone who’d been close to the Salar knew he liked to hunt, and liked his game hard and challenging — the kind that pushed him to the limit, and then extended it afterwards. Amelia would have to learn this soon if she were to last longer than a few nights in his chamber. It would be interesting to see if the girl was truly as intelligent as she seemed.

 

Still, it would be a lie to say there wasn’t an uneasy feeling in her stomach, waiting in front of his chamber next to a girl young enough to be her daughter. She knew the reason he’d summoned them both at the same time — to pick one and suffer the other — and she couldn’t say for sure which of the two fates he'd planned for her. Amelia seemed to know this too, but appeared to have been convinced that she was the one to be picked, judging from the way she stood fidgeting like a girl waiting to be asked out for a dance. To Zaharra, by contrast, it felt like waiting for a possible death sentence. Her future and that of her son hung on his decision tonight, and whether Amelia could deliver what she’d set out to do.

 

The door to the inner chamber clicked opened. Ghaul who’d been guarding the entrance turned abruptly to watch the two handmaidens carrying a basket full of worn clothes from the room. He must have just finished his bath, Zaharra thought, registering the familiar fragrance of sage and mint that escaped through the opened door. She’d come to hate how much that scent could unnerve her over the years, and was often amazed that she hadn’t gotten over it by now.

 

“The Salar has called for you, my lady,” one of them turned to Amelia and curtsied as she spoke. “The Lady Zaharra is to wait here for the summon.”

 

A numbness spread through her then, like being stripped naked and left to stand in the snow. It had, at long last, come to this after seventeen years of enduring endless, pride-swallowing torture. She’d been aware of the possibility of being cast aside for some time, having reached an age that was no longer considered young, but nothing was ever enough to prepare one for such a fall, especially when so much was at stake. The pain she felt was shocking, considering that her heart wasn’t a part of what had been inflicted.

 

Next to her, Amelia’s eyes flashed a not-so-subtle gleam of satisfaction, showing off her victory and making her mark. Things would change from now on, and she could already see the power changing hands where they stood.

 

“Of course,”Zaharra nodded and stepped aside, putting on her best mask of indifference and smiled sweetly as she watched the beautiful figure disappeared into the chamber where he was.

 

Where he would be standing now, in nothing but the black silk robe he always wore after a bath, grinning — she was sure — in amusement at the thought of her being made to wait by the door as he entertained himself with his younger, more eager bride, believing that he’d found a brand new way to torture her all over again for the mistake she’d made seventeen years ago. And it was working. Oh it worked beautifully, tremendously. The defeat, the humiliation, the searing pain of being put aside like a toy he’d grown tired of rushed through her veins like a paralyzing venom, on top of frightening knowledge that the reality she’d long feared had finally arrived.

 

“You might want to sit down,” Ghaul said after the door had been closed, grinning with unrestrained satisfaction. “It may take the whole night.”

 

She resisted the urge to glare at him, despite the need to find an outlet for the rage she was feeling. Ghaul despised her. She had known this from the first day they’d met when he’d struck her down in that tent. Since then, their encounters in front of the Salar’s private chamber had been full of scorns and insults from his part, to which she’d always responded with detached amusement, as though his words did nothing more than entertained her. That day she was as far from being amused as she could, but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he could get under her skin now, on top of what his master had just done.

 

“It usually does,” she said, smiling back sweetly. “The Salar’s appetite can be,” she paused, drew a breath as if recalling a certain memory too explicit to be put into words and waited for it to reach his imagination, “quite exhausting in bed.”

 

It never ceased to amaze her how the trick still worked after all this time. Ghaul, flushing like a ripened tomato, turned his attention abruptly to admire the decoration in the room as if to keep his mind clear from the image she’d projected. The subject had always made him uncomfortable, somehow, and messing with Ghaul who’d been strictly forbidden from striking her despite his constant wish to do so had been one of the few pleasures she’d managed to salvage from her captivity in the Tower. The fact that she’d been summoned here more often than other wives had also grated him even further. She might have even thought him jealous if the Salar had also been taking boys to bed. Then again, she wasn’t sure he wasn’t. There were many forms of jealousy, and Ghaul had been the most trusted man and among those closest to him in the Tower. She shared that position now, not as the most trusted one, but definitely as one closest to him where proximity and time spent in his chamber were concerned.

 

A position that was being threatened at that moment, Zaharra thought, grimacing as her mind wandered off to imagine what might be going on behind that door. Would he touch Amelia the same way he touched her? Was he smiling now, licking his lips as his eyes roamed over a fresh, young body she no longer possessed? It had been a while since he’d taken other wives to bed, and the reality that hadn’t bothered her before was somehow affecting her now, to the point that she was contemplating on disobeying his command and walking out of that room for good. He would punish her for that, of course, and pick out someone she knew from the Shakshi quarter to kill. Perhaps more than one, depending on his mood at the time and how many lives he figured it would take for her to never do so again.

 

To her surprise, the door opened before she’d finished that thought. Zaharra looked past Ghaul’s gigantic form to see the slender figure of Amelia nearly limping out from the chamber. Her neat, beautiful curls were now disorderly and tangled, and tears pooled in her bloodshot eyes that had once been beautiful and clear. She looked like she’d been through a raid. Like a girl who'd just found out there were real monsters in this world.

 

It dawned on her then, that whatever he had done behind those doors, desire or attraction hadn't been a part of it, and that she’d been wrong in her initial interpretation of the situation. She knew that look, had seen it a hundred times before on the faces of her people, and in her own reflection time and time again in the past seventeen years — the look of something that had just been broken beyond repair.

 

Upon seeing her scrutinizing gaze, Amelia straightened her spine abruptly and and squared her shoulders like a queen before her subjects. The soft, youthful lines of her face had become so harsh and weathered now, that although only minutes had passed, it looked like she’d been gone a year since she’d disappeared through that door.

 

At least the girl was still strong enough to hold herself together, Zaharra thought, feeling her own anger winding down and replaced by a touch of sympathy, having just remembered how young Amelia was.

 

“He is expecting you,” she said through her gritted teeth, refusing to shed anymore of her pride, especially in front of another woman.

 

Another life changed over the course of one night, or in this case, in less than an hour, Zaharra thought with a heavy heart. She had come to realize for some time, how a single event could strip a child so completely of her innocence, how quick the world could be in punishing the naive and the ignorant. Amelia would always remember now, and long after, that there was a hardness to living, that things wouldn’t always be what she wanted. Had she been a different woman with a different past she might have tried to offer some comfort the girl, but comfort and compassion wasn’t something either of them should be relying on to survive, not around this man. In a way, she was glad Amelia seemed to know this, and had refused to show a need for it. She had, after all, been born and raised in Rasharwi.

 

Stepping into the outer room, Zaharra paused for her eyes to adjust to the sudden absence of light. The space had been dimly lit, with only one hurricane to illuminate the dark walls of gleaming obsidian. Expecting to find him in his bedchamber through the opposite door, she walked past the medium-sized round table, and paused to note a stain of spilled wine on the white tablecloth. An empty goblet lay on its side by her feet, its content emptied onto the priceless carpet like a fresh trail of blood. She picked it up and placed it back on the table, pushing away the image her mind conjured as to how it had gotten there. It was always better not to know.

 

A shadow caught her eyes and drew her attention to the window. The moon, full and high in the sky, casted its golden light through the large opening where a dark figure lounged carelessly on the window sill, as if unaware of the certain death its height promised should one were to fall. As always, he sat daringly with his back against the frame, one leg extended lazily on the ledge and the other hanging loosely outside the window. The silver goblet in his hand glinted in the moonlight as he turned it back and forth absentmindedly. The wine had been gone a while ago, she could tell. He had a tendency to leave it unfilled and nurse the emptied cup for a long time, unwilling to break his chain of thoughts with such interruptions when his mind was too occupied by something important.

 

Without a word, Zaharra headed to the window and replaced the empty goblet in his hand with a new one she’d filled from the table. He took it in silence, keeping his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance as she waited for him to initiate the conversation.

 

“Does it ever bother you,” he said at length, sipping once more from the cup she’d given, “when they expect you to breed?”

 

The melancholy in his voice surprised her. She’d expected him to be in a different mood, to goad her over Amelia, and grin victoriously when he succeeded. Instead he’d asked her this, and he sounded almost tired.

 

“No more than being kept for entertainment, I assure you,” she replied indifferently. She may have been born a bharavi, and had been expected to do nothing more than to breed more bharavis and oracles, but whatever her previous life had required, it was still far better than the life she was leading now.

 

He turned and regarded her appearance for the first time that night. The white dress she wore would be noted, of course, so would the moonstone she'd hung around her neck — the same one she’d been given on her eighteenth birthday, as with all Shakshi girls, to eventually bestow upon the man she chose to marry. It was a symbol of sorts. One that told him she would never surrender completely. He liked to be reminded sometimes of what she was, and that she still had some defiance in her. After a long absence, she knew it was what she needed to rekindle his interest to keep her status in the Tower.

 

A grin appeared on his lips soon after. The dress and the necklace excited him, she could tell.

 

“Is that what you think you are? My entertainment?” He asked with a noticeable edge to this tone. “Am I so susceptible to pleasure, Zaharra?”

 

She resisted the urge to swallow, knowing he would catch it in an instant. Reluctance made him suspicious, and indecision seen as a sign of dishonesty. Assume too much and he'd find one a liability, too little and one appeared incompetent. Salar Muradi of Rasharwi allowed only competent, intelligent people around him, and if she were to continue to belong in that circle, her answers to these questions of many meanings had to be correct.

 

It just so happened, that she knew exactly how to do just that. From the very first day they'd met, it had been her direct, unpretentious ways to which she responded his questions that had captured his interest. He’d enjoyed these conversations with her, and she had come to realize the longer she could keep them going, the less his needs would be for her to satisfy him in bed. There had been nights when they'd simply talked, and those had been easier for her to bear, even though his intelligence had always stretched her thin and drained her completely of energy, leaving her mentally exhausted the next day.

 

“You like to play with your food. You always have, my lord,” she replied sweetly. “In that sense, I do find you susceptible to pleasure, yes.”

 

His mouth quirked into a smile, the same way he’d always done when he was pleased with her answers. “How very observant of you.”

 

Catching the sarcasm in his tone, she gave him an all-business look. “One has to be to stay alive around you, my lord. Ask Jarem.”

 

He rose from the window and took a seat on the chair facing her, sinking his weight into the velvet cushion. The front part of his robe hung loose and uneven on his body, revealing a general amount of skin below his collarbone. She wondered briefly if he’d bothered taking it off when he took Amelia. Salar Muradi had never been one who enjoyed quick, casual pleasures. He took time, always, to savor every little thing he could take from rendering his opponent defenseless, tasting every hints and notes of his victory the same way he tasted his wine in both sex and war whenever it pleased him to do so. Whatever he’d done with Amelia, considering the pace at which it had been executed and his mood at the moment, hadn’t pleased him.

 

“Jarem will tell you that I’m old and not as unforgiving as I once was.”

 

The mood was, indeed, strange. Like a weight was pressing on him — a weight he didn't want to deal with at the moment. He found his responsibilities taxing sometimes, but had always seemed to find the energy to tackle them flawlessly. That night something was bothering him greatly, she could tell from how stiff his shoulders were and the way he seemed to breathe with some difficulty.

 

“Jarem will tell you what you want to hear and offer to produce you an heir if he could, perhaps even more willingly than Lady Amelia. You know this."

 

He made a sour face at the mention of that name, as if recalling something with a bad aftertaste. “She wasn’t unwilling.”

 

"She was crying on the way out," Zaharra said, feigning indifference as she poured herself a drink, though not without giving him a pointed look as she did.

 

He sneered at that. Guilt was not something that fit him or a thing one could force him to wear.

 

“As a result of her own false presumption, I assure you.”

 

“For expecting her newly wed husband to be gentle and affectionate when he beds her, my lord?” She didn’t like Amelia, but that statement bothered her.

 

“For expecting more than what was on the contract,” he replied with a stone cold expression, one he normally used when discussing business and matters of state. “I agreed to take her as my wife and give her a son in exchange for a loan from her father at a small interest rate. A son he plans to put on _my_ throne so he can manipulate to grow his profit and eventually take control of the Salasar. I see no reason why I should be required to shower her with gentleness and affection when they’re out to suck my blood, father and daughter both.”

 

Put that way, he did have a point, Zaharra thought. The projects he’d been putting into action to build dams and better roads in Rasharwi had been draining the Tower’s gold reserves, forcing him to take out a huge loan from Zubin izr Mafouz to support them. The marriage must have been Jarem’s idea of minimizing the interest, judging from how much it was grating on his patience.

 

“So you hurt her on purpose.” It wasn’t a question. She knew he had.

 

“I don’t like being muscled.”

 

That he didn't. Make such a mistake, and he would make sure you remembered it for life. She’d had firsthand experience on that.

 

“By using me as a weapon,” she said pointedly. It was becoming clear to her now, why she’d been summoned at the same time and had been made to wait. Amelia had never been the first choice. She was a job, a collateral of a deal he'd had to take care of before entertaining himself with another wife, and he’d wanted to make it crystal clear. She wondered what would be worse for a girl like Amelia - being forced into bed with a man she despised or being used by one she liked only to be thrown away like garbage.

 

"You sound angry."

 

She _had_ been angry, but it was for a different reason now. “You will forgive me, my lord, if I don't enjoy being used.”

 

“I thought you might have appreciated it,” he said, taking a sip of his wine as he regarded her expression, “considering what she's been putting you through these two months."

 

That startled her. “What has Jarem been telling you, my lord?"

 

He watched her quietly for a time, considering, of course, how much she needed to know regarding his awareness of things that had happened in the Tower while he’d been away. It was in these moments that she could measure how much he trusted her, how far he was willing to discuss things when she chose to press for it. When his eyes flickered to something else on the table, she knew the answer to that instantly.

 

“Enough,” he said.

 

It didn’t come as a surprise. She’d always known for some time that his walls weren’t going to come down easily. Seventeen years of being in this room and she’d barely made a chip in it, Zaharra thought bitterly.

 

“And you want me to believe you've done this to humor me? Really, my lord?” She wasn’t born yesterday, or naive enough to even consider that a possibility.

 

"Why not, Zaharra?” He asked casually, only his eyes would tell an entirely different tale. They fixed upon her like a hawk waiting for the right opportunity to strike, its sharp, deadly talons opened wide and ready. “Surely you are aware how everyone considers you my favorite."

 

 _This was it_ , Zaharra thought, feeling the floor underneath her feet suddenly disappeared at the realization. This was the weight that had been pressing down on him when she’d entered the room. The very idea that he had a favorite was unacceptable to him. It was a threat, a spark that he had to put out immediately and decisively. Under normal circumstances she would have been killed that night to put an end to it and to set an example, but he had other agendas for her that required keeping her alive or he would break his own promise. He _could_ throw her into a dungeon and treat her as a prisoner the way she deserved, but she knew he was enjoying her company too much to dismiss her entirely. In a way, she _was_ his favorite — they weren’t wrong in thinking that — but more of a favorite plaything than a favorite person if they only knew his motives. The problem was that they didn’t and he was now stuck with the problem of having to show them she wasn’t, which meant less summons, less privileges, less protection for Zaharra, and more time spent with his other wives that he found to be as irritating as Amelia. It was also a situation that would also affect her and her son immensely.

 

Even if he were to ignore all this and continue to enjoy himself toying with her — a high possibility given how much he despised being muscled into doing things especially by the men and women of his court— he would be suspicious of her now, and would think twice before allowing himself to be entertained by anything she did or said to avoid being manipulated. She’d always known of the fine line between trying to excite him and to wind him around her fingers. The latter, being too close to the definition of a favorite person, was something he would never allow himself to be regardless of what other people thought. The moment he decided that she’d crossed such a line she would be locked out of this chamber and watched with every move she made, and the outcome would be the same for her. And he was testing her now, to see if she had an intention to cross that line, if he should continue to let her remain so close as she’d been.

 

It must have been Jarem, she swore at him inwardly. That man could always dig up something to make her life difficult.

 

She looked straight at him and smiled, praying that he wouldn’t see how much the subject was unnerving her. “ _Everyone_ is usually wrong, my lord.”

 

" _Are they?_ ” The tone he used sent a chill down her spine. His deep, penetrating blue eyes pinned her in place like a spear to the throat. “Have you not been trying to hold my interest after all these years?” He said slowly, nursing the wine in his goblet as he observed her every move, every expression. One breath held, one twitch of her eye, or one small sign of discomfort would all be noted, she was certain. “After all, you did pick that dress for a reason, did you not, Zaharra?”

 

She _had_ picked it for a reason, Zaharra thought and suddenly regretted her decision. Had she known Jarem would bring it up to him that day she would have chosen differently. Now she was walking on dangerous grounds because of it, and the wrong answer could be considered deadly. Deny it and he would find it an insult to his intelligence. Tell him the truth, and she would be accused of trying to manipulate him, or believing that he _could_ be manipulated. Her reply, if she were to survive this conversation, had to do more than convince him that she wasn’t a threat as Jarem had proposed her to be.

 

As it happened, she knew exactly what worked with him. “Of course, I did,” she said bluntly. “Is it working, my lord? I haven’t noticed.”

 

Holding his gaze with her unwavering amber, she offered him a promise of danger and a chance for him to rise to the occasion. After all, it was why she was there.

 

_I am trying to cross the line. Are you afraid?_

 

Something changed in his expression then, as if he’d just been reminded of something he’d nearly forgotten, and Zaharra knew in an instant she’d hit the mark. Keeping his eyes on her, he drew a long, sharp breath as he uncrossed and recrossed his legs in the opposite direction, and then released it with an uneven, ragged sound of someone trying to hold back a strong emotion. The outlines of his muscles grew alarmingly tensed underneath the silk robe, while his predatory blue eyes stared at her with the same intensity he had on the fist day they’d met. They burned with desire so strong she could feel the heat on her cheeks.

 

“Is it working?” He repeated almost breathlessly, tasting each word as if they promised a rare delicacy. “I wanted to rip it to shreds and take you by that window when you came in.”

 

She turned her gaze to the pitcher, picked it up and proceeded to refill his wine, wishing that he wouldn’t notice how unsteady her hand was as she poured into the cup. "The same way you just did with Amelia?” She asked pointedly. It helped to steer her mind in a different direction, one that might make her feel more angry than unsettled.

 

“I wanted to break her, there’s a difference.”

 

 _The same way you broke me_ , she thought, recalling the look on Amelia's face, the hurt in her eyes that must have resembled her own years ago. And he’d spoken of it so casually, as though it had been the most natural thing to do in the world.

 

“The girl is only eighteen,” she said, not bothering to conceal the reproach in her tone. “Don’t you think that’s a bit much, my lord?”

 

He sneered at that. “The interest her father is charging me _is_ a bit much, so is an eighteen year-old’s assumption that she can use me as a stud if her father pays me enough,” he grumbled. "We pay for the mistakes we make, Zaharra. Now she will learn to never make them again. This is me being kind."

 

What was it, Zaharra wondered from time to time, that made him so willing to punish the foolish and the weak? She knew something in his past still haunted him, roused him from sleep, and invaded his nightmares even now. For all his power and abilities, Muradi treaded each step as if he was walking on a tightrope hung from a deadly height, leaving no room for mistakes and taking down potential threats long before they could become enemies. In many ways, it had been what made him so strong and seemingly indestructible. On the other hand, she had a feeling it would take just one small push, or one misstep in the wrong direction to destroy him completely. The problem being, that he was fully aware of it, and had been making sure no one could ever distract him enough to bring about such a mistake. He would kill both her and her son, she was certain, before he allowed them to ever get too close to breaching his walls.

 

Still, she had been close, Zaharra thought looking at the crease between those brows and the expression not many people had been allowed to see. Close enough to hear him grumbled about his subjects or expressed an emotional statement regarding certain events that excited or irritated him. That much she knew had been a privilege no other wives possessed, perhaps not even Ghaul or Jarem. It helped that she held no political status in the Tower and had no real allies in Rasharwi that might benefit from these insights. In that sense, she’d been the only outlet for things he couldn’t share with the world at large, which was probably why he’d summoned her more often than others. 

 

“I’m surprised you let Jarem talk you into it,” she said. There _had_ been other ways to get the money, especially when the Salar had considered them to be sucking his blood as he’d put it.

 

That thought gave him the urge to sip his wine. “He believes I need more sons and a young wife every once in a while to show competence both on and off the battlefield."

 

Zaharra chuckled softly at that. Count it on Jarem, to be so thorough in preserving the sacred image of his beloved Salar, down to the tiniest details. She wouldn’t be surprised if he were to start commenting on what he wore tomorrow. “You do need more sons, my lord, considering the rate you're killing them,” she said with an edge to her tone. “And a young girl every once in a while should excite and keep your senses heightened. He has a point.”

 

He smiled and gave her a look that made her long, traditional gown felt suddenly revealing.

 

“My senses are perfectly heightened right now, I assure you,” he said.

 

She glanced down at the content in her cup, feigning ignorance. “From a recent encounter with a young wife, I'm certain.”

 

"From contemplating what I'm going to do to you while we've been having this conversation. I am," he paused and looked at her, dragging his fingers across the smooth, black marble where he’d placed down the goblet, “trying to decide if I want to have you on my bed or on this table."

 

She raised a brow and put on a mask of surprise, despite the way her heart was beating violently against her ribs, and the dread of what was to come that was threatening to swallow her whole.

 

"After the conversation then.” She smiled and did her best to change the subject, "one where you might feel inclined to tell me where you've sent my son?"

 

" _Our_ son,” he corrected.

 

 _Mine_ , she resisted the urge to protest and opted instead to sip her wine. She would need it for tonight, a lot of it, after what he’d just promised. “Where is Lasura, my lord?”

 

“Alli Rasa."

 

This time she truly was surprised. “For the eagles?” The Salar had never shown an interest in owning one, and she was sure he would climb that treacherous mountain himself if he did, or it would never be enough to satisfy him.

 

"He brought down the mother today and wanted to go for the chicks. It was quite a remarkable shot, I admit."

 

“I see.” So it had been Lasura’s idea to please his father. That was something she needed to address when he returned. The boy could use less attention upon himself, and she would prefer to see the Salar having less influence on her son. “That is why you’re holding the reception? For his return?”

 

“Jarem seemed certain he’d return with the chicks and wanted to make a spectacle out of it,” he said and looked at her, expecting a response.

 

The news of the Salar earning himself a spotted eagle was worth spreading, of course. “He will return with the chicks. The question is how many.” It would be worth the effort only if Lasura could also earn one.

 

Her answer seemed to surprise him. “You’re not worried,” he asked, rubbing his free hand over the neat, closely shaved beard.

 

She turned and to look at him, frowning. “If he cannot survive the mountains, he will not survive the Tower. Besides, you wouldn’t have allowed him to go up there if you thought he wouldn’t survive.” That would upset a lot of the plans he had for the boy. Plans she’d been living to make sure he wouldn’t succeed.

 

Surprise crossed his face for a moment, and was quickly replaced by something far more unnerving. “I think both,” he said.

 

“Both, my lord?” She raised a brow.

 

“I will have you,” he rose to stand directly in front of her, placing the goblet down on the table, “both on this table and on my bed.”

 

Gripping hard on the edge of the table, Zaharra closed her eyes and imagined herself elsewhere as his lips captured her own, knowing it would soon undo her in more ways than one if she didn’t. It had been the only way to prevent herself from breaking into pieces, to force her mind to be anywhere but here, all wrapped up and tangled in the arms of the enemy who had become her husband, the father of her son, her reason for living despite the constant calling of her heart to end her life. She had come to know what an awareness of his touch could do to her, how close she would be from breaking when the flood of emotions shot through her veins and threatened to tear hear apart, pulling her in all directions at once.

 

It was becoming harder and harder to tuck herself into that corner of her mind, Zaharra thought, struggling to shut down her senses as his hand ran through her hair and down the small of her back, pulling her so close she could feel the beating of his heart. She winced at the way her pride slammed against the barrier she’d built around it, telling her to fight him with all she had despite knowing the consequences. At the same time a voice in her head nagged her endlessly over another possibility. One that reminded her of the power she could hold with the simplest touch of her hand or a sound she could make that she knew would render him defenseless. How good it would do for her son if she could somehow wrap him around her finger, and steer him towards what she wanted?

 

Zaharra knew she could do just that. Had even tried it on several occasions, and every time he’d responded to it with an urgency that had surprised her. It didn’t take long for her to know, that here, in his private chamber, stripped bare of the fabric that separated their bodies, she could undo him as much as he could overpower her in all other ways. Despite his efforts to conceal it, she had come to know what she was over the years. For more than a decade she had been his only refuge, his source of energy when his duty had drained him, his outlet for anger, for pain, and for the tension he could not allow to show without compromising his authority. She also knew that no one, living or dead, had ever been able to offer the kind of pleasure he’d derived from her over a simple conversation, or in what they were doing now.

 

It would be so easy, Zaharra thought as his hands tugged impatiently at her gown, if she could follow such a voice and reach out to touch him, to answer his kiss with a deeper one, to undress him with the same urgency he was undressing her at the moment.

 

If only she could do all this without destroying herself along with him.

 

She’d known for some time, that for every voice that was telling her to exact her revenge, there existed in no little amount an awareness of her own weakness against this man. Her body responded fiercely to his touch, regardless of how far she would go to deny it. The presence of those winged creatures in her stomach that came alive every time he walked into the room was undeniable, despite her best efforts ignore them. She also knew the correct name for the sharp, burning pain she was feeling now when the scent of Amelia’s lingering perfume reached her nose from the robe he wore.

 

It would take her just one step into that direction, Zaharra knew, for everything that she was and had vowed to do to come tumbling down along with her walls that had been keeping him from becoming anything more than her enemy. The moment she acknowledged those feelings and accepted them, she would drown in these arms and never resurface. It was something she would never allow to happen — couldn’t allow to happen —for the same reason she knew he would never allow himself to do so for her.

 

Which was why he’d always restrained himself, as he was doing now, from tearing the silk of her dress to shreds, from clawing at her skin to be closer, to take _more_ , when she knew he’d wanted to do just that. Still, there had been two occasions when he’d let slip his defenses, laying himself completely and dangerously opened to her. Both times had been the night after he’d ordered the execution of his sons.

 

It had lingered in her mind for weeks after, and altered a lot of things in her heart. She wished, every single day afterwards, that she’d never discovered that part of him — the part that told her he wasn’t the cold, unspeakable monster she’d needed him to be. That he was very human, with flaws and weaknesses, who could trust, and love, and be hurt when betrayed. That he might be, in some ways, as broken as she was.

 

 _What a pair they make,_ Zaharra thought, watching him sleep that night. The arms that wrapped around her felt as heavy and inescapable as the first day they’d held her down in the Vilarhiti. By the bed, the two indescribably sharp pair of obsidian blades rested just within her reach, placed there deliberately, as always, to see if she would try the unthinkable.

 

 _Not today_ , Zaharra told herself inwardly as she closed her eyes. Not until her people and her son were free from his grasp. Until then she would have to find a way to survive these arms and quiet the voices in her head.

 

Closing her eyes, she let her mind drift back to the distant days of her childhood, when she had raced her brothers on their horses in the valley below the snow-capped mountains of the Vilarhiti, feeling the wind on her face and in her hair with no other care in the world. All those nights in the desert, lying on her back in her mother’s arms, counting and naming stars until only the two of them remained awake at camp had been among the memories she replayed a hundred times to lull her to sleep. She thought then of home, away from the confinement of these stone walls and its people, and allowed her mind to be carried away for a time from the chamber that had been her prison for seventeen years.

 

 

***

 


	8. Somewhere in Between

Hasheem blinked at the strange man staring back at him in the mirror. It had been only a little less than a month since he’d left Rasharwi to join the Visarya, and he could hardly recognize his own reflection. Somewhere along the way he’d gotten used to seeing himself in the uniform of Dee’s household. The deep midnight blue tunic, which blended well with the Tower’s all black livery worn by the guards but was still different enough that he’d never been mistaken as one, had become second skin to him over the years. Along with the distinctive uniform, Dee had seen to it that his men all wore a headscarf to fully cover the different shades of their hair, and that their eyes were always lined thickly with kohl — an old tradition in Samarra where Dee had come from. In the end, his men all looked the same regardless of their origin, except for the different materials of the small ring on their right ear that marked the position one held under Dee’s command.

 

The plain, golden ring was the only thing he’d kept from his old life in the city, and it still hung daringly from his ear in front of that mirror. Having tortured himself daily for nearly two years to rise from iron to copper to silver to finally earning the gold ring had made him reluctant to remove it when he should have. Shakshi men wore no jewelry except for the moonstone necklace given to them by their wife or an occasional charm meant for protection. Wearing such an ornament was among the many things that had been making him stand out like a sore thumb at camp. It definitely didn’t help in terms of fitting in, but then he didn’t think removing it would have done much either.

 

By appearance he was an mistakable pureblood — the type that could still produce oracles and bharavis given the right marriage and a great deal of luck, and under normal circumstances his status in the khagan should have been second only to the kha’a’s own family. But he was also an orphan — a _stray_ , they called him — and strays were amongst the lowest in status for the reason that they were useless as far as influential positions were concerned, not to mention they posed a serious threat to the khagan. The Shakshis didn’t trust anyone without a family they could execute. They didn’t trust him, not even if their kha’a and khumar decided to, with or without Dee’s ring on his right ear.

 

As a stray, here, he could wear just about any color as long as it didn’t resemble too closely to the Zikh or the gray robes of the warriors in training. Both of which were considered uniforms of honor worn only by those who’d been taken in by a Shojo — a master sanctioned by Citara to train new warriors. Hasheem had chosen brown as his everyday color, which, he figured, blended in well enough with the majority of boys his age who were all wearing gray, but was still different enough that he would never be mistaken as one. The irony of it was downright hilarious. He’d been on a run for days, chased by Rashai soldiers back into the land that was supposed to be his home, only to find himself in the exact same situation he’d had in Rasharwi. You could always run from the life you know, but never from who you are, someone had told him that a long time ago.

 

Still, he could see the resemblance between the reflection and the memory of himself as a boy. He looked every bit a Shakshi now, down to the rough spun wool of his understated brown tunic, and the braids that had been done in White Warrior style. It wasn’t home — his home had been burned down a long time ago, along with everyone in it — but seeing himself in that mirror reminded him of home, of what his life could have been had things turned out differently. He would have looked exactly like this, would be standing in a tent not so different from this one, his khagan, if he remembered correctly, was also of a similar size. It felt like a dream, and yet it wasn’t. Sometimes life dragged you around in a full circle, only to throw you back where it began. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Not when one sought to start anew.

 

But there was something new in his life, Hasheem thought as he walked towards the stable that morning. He was a sworn sword to Djari iza Zuri, the girl of the prophecy, a bharavi, and daughter to a kha’a. There was power in that, if Djari was truly what Nazir had said she would be. He could influence some things, shape some of the future, or at least be a part of it. Small things mattered. A slight shift in the weather, a single decision made, one word held or spoken could all change the outcome of a war. He was on his way now, towards doing one of those things that could change the fate of the peninsula, or so he hoped it would.

 

 

From the day the kha’a had taken away Djari’s training sessions, Hasheem had offered to work with her each morning in the stable before dawn while the camp was still asleep. They had been doing so in secret, of course, or it would be considered a deliberate attempt to defy the kha’a’s orders should he ever find out. The risk attached was phenomenal, but he figured he owed her that much for being the cause of such a ban, and he’d never quite agreed with the decision to keep her from learning how to defend herself. Sometimes it just didn’t matter how many guards you placed around a person. Working for Dee had taught him that much. In the world he lived in at least, being prepared to fight for your own life was never ever a bad idea. That, and keeping Djari alive was a part of his job.

 

It was still dark outside, and in the stable only one hurricane would be lit to offer them just enough light to see. The windows would be covered, and so would any large openings that could give their presence away. It was impossible to cover them all, however, and if one were to walk right up to the gate as he did, one would immediately see the sliver of light coming through the small gaps around the doorway.

 

The sliver of light that told him Djari was already there, and had been for some time.

 

From the very first day he'd begun helping her train, Djari had made a point at waking up and being there before he did every morning to begin her exercise and be ready when he arrived. They didn’t have a lot of time to waste. She knew this, knew what she had to do without needing to be told, and had done it without fail for the past three weeks. You could fault Djari over many things, but you couldn’t fault her discipline or how hard she pushed herself. She was the kind of student every master dreamed of. It was a pity she wasn't allowed to learn. He wondered if her sword master felt the same way.

 

Hasheem pushed the door open and stepped inside, locking it behind him quietly. Halfway down the path between the two rows of stalls holding the kha’a’s family horses, a small figure could be seen moving about in the dimly lit space. Djari was dancing the warrior dance with her sword, spinning and leaping from one end to another, cutting down imaginary opponents and balancing her steps. She remembered her lessons well. Djari always did.

 

Hasheem stood in silence, watching her practice from the doorway. She was quick but not extraordinary quick given her light, small frame. Some of her steps were clumsy, lacking in precision needed to hold proper balance. These things took time, however, and endless hours of training to build up the strength to get them right. Time she didn’t have. Time he was trying to

give her. He wasn’t sure if it would be enough. One could only do so much being a girl in the world of men.

 

Still, it was worth the effort, if only for a chance to see what he was seeing. Not many things could stun you like watching Djari dance with her sword and spear, or when she trained her bow at a target. Some girls could make you forget to breathe in the right dress or wearing the right jewels. With Djari, it was the image of her on a horse, holding her spine impossibly straight, drawing her bow with an intention to stop your heart. Literally so, in his case. Hasheem wasn’t sure he would ever recover from that image, or from this.

 

There was power in the air, an invisible energy one could sense around her in these moments. Djari wielded her weapons with everything she had, with all the strengths in her limbs, and with the kind of determination that pinned you to the ground and squeezed your heart. You could see it in her stance, in her eyes, or how she held herself — the overpowering mixture of anger, of pain, and of every wound inflicted that was driving her. She was like fire, like lightening, like something that left a permanent mark wherever it touched when she was determined to strike. A sight that scarred and didn’t allow you to move on.

 

Such a focus was good, but it could also kill you, Hasheem thought with a weight pressed on his heart. For weeks now he’d watched her from afar, had seen how engaged she could be in her exercise, how unaware she had been of his presence in the stable. He hadn’t mentioned it, and had simply waited until she’d finished and noticed him in the past few weeks. Being aware of one’s surrounding while engaging in a fight was a difficult concept for someone with her level of experience, but it would have to be addressed at one point if they were to continue with this.

 

He made his way down the corridor where she was, making sure his footsteps wouldn’t be heard. He’d been trained impeccably for it. One needed such skills to kill without being discovered. That was the way Dee’s boys and men worked. They crept in the shadows, armed with swords and daggers, sometimes a rope, other times a vial of Dee’s infamous poison. He wondered briefly what Djari would think of that if she knew, what she would do with the knowledge of what he had done. The Shakshis in general would surely find enough shame to exile or execute him, given how much honor meant to them. But their opinions didn’t matter. Djari’s did, enough so that he was determined to make sure she would never find out.

 

Positioning himself at a close distance behind her, Hasheem watched and waited for another spin, another leap, and the sweep of her arm that followed before bringing down hard the hilt of his sword on her wrist, knocking the blade free from her grip and sending it flying across the stable to land some distance behind him.

 

She made a small sound, shaking her wrist at the pain as she turned to look, seeing him for the first time.

 

“Be aware of your surrounding,” he said, picking up the sword from the floor, weighing it in his hand. It was becoming too light for her and would need more weight added, if she wanted to become stronger. He was no sword master, but that was what Dee would have done to push for progress.He made things harder than you could handle, then made it harder again the moment you began to get used to it. “I could have killed you.”

 

Taking a moment to breathe and adjust herself, Djari nodded in acknowledgement. No comments to the pain or the surprise attack. No complaints, not from Djari. Never for all the time they’d trained in the stable. She was used to being pushed, to harshness from her father, to receiving a blow and be expected to bounce back on her feet immediately. Djari would spit blood and brush the sand off her scraped knee without a word or a pause, to strike at him again and again, each time with more intensity and more determination to inflict a wound. Most people crumbled like clay when you crushed them, Djari broke like obsidian — into something sharper and deadlier the more you strike at her.

 

He handed her back the blade. She took it readily, still visibly heaving for breaths and wincing when she turned her wrist. The blow had been hard and painful, he knew. He’d meant it to be.

 

“Come,” he said, bringing up his own sword.

 

She gripped harder on the hilt of her blade and stepped into position. Her yellow eyes became focused, sharp as a hawk’s. He could hear her breathing slowly now, could see her counting her steps as she moved, making sure they fell in with her heartbeat. A lesson he’d been taught very early on and had passed on to her, one she’d learned to accomplish immediately. Djari was a fast learner, mostly because she was always paying attention and was willing to listen. He was no sword master, had never trained anyone in his life, but he gave her everything he knew, every lesson he’d been taught, and she absorbed them all hungrily, unquestioningly.

 

He watched and waited for her decision to strike. When the time came, she stepped forward, cut left and then right, high then low. He dodged them both, dropped to the ground and struck hard on the left side of her torso with the hilt of his sword, sending her stumbling back a few steps and hunching over, biting back a groan.

 

“You looked,” he said, rising back to his feet. “I could see you coming before you even took your first step.” It was the biggest problem with Djari. She was an archer, had trained all her life to focus on a target before she made a shot. A bad habit when it came to sword fight and one that was most difficult to get rid of. “Keep your eyes on mine. Look for a change on your opponent’s expression. Try to read him and don’t let him read you,” he said, returning to his stance. “Again.”

 

She drew a breath and winced, still obviously struggling to recover from the pain on her left side. It was going to last for a while. He hadn’t held back on that one.

 

“Today, Djari,” he said.

 

She straightened abruptly, biting her lower lip as she did and repositioned her blade. They began again, one lesson after another in quick successions. It would go on without pause until time ran out or until her legs gave in. She would have to take the blows and get back up quickly when she faltered. The grey warriors had all day to train. She had one hour. Every minute mattered.

 

He knew he was hard on her, perhaps too hard for a girl her age, but he also knew one had to be to gain recognition or respect from Djari. She was Za’in izr Husari’s daughter, and despite their constant clashes, there was no man on earth she placed on a higher pedestal as her father. The harder Za’in struck at her, the more she seemed to expect it from the world. You could insult Djari by being soft, or if you treated her like something fragile. He didn’t want to disappoint her in this, or in anything. He didn’t like disappointing her.

 

And so their training sessions continued in this way every morning. Him, pushing her until she was spent, and Djari pushing back at him until she could no longer hold her own weight. They were two figures, alone in the dark, striking at each other with all they had, coming together, drawing apart, circling around and dancing to the hoofbeats and the heavy breathing of the horses. Changing the world, or trying to, one morning at a time.

 

But despite the violence and the intensity of it, there was a strange sense of peace and comfort in what they did,. Time stood still for him in these moments, and for a short while he could escape those dreams that plagued him during the nights, clinging in his mind sometimes days afterwards. Being with Djari did that a lot. She put his senses on high alert, made him forget where they were, pinning him down in the present where his past couldn’t catch up with him. Here, in the stable, he might even go as far as saying that he felt content with his life — something he hadn’t thought was possible for a long time, or ever again.

 

The way he was feeling now, watching her sprawled on her back over a pile of hay in Springer’s stall, catching her breath after a good practice round. They talked sometimes, afterwards, if there was time, over small things. He liked it when they did. Djari didn’t talk or smile a lot, except around her horses. She acted like an adult most of the time, always trying to fit into the role that had been drawn up for her. It was only here that she seemed to allow herself to be young again, even playful from time to time. The stable was her refuge, her escape from the world, and the fact that he’d been allowed in it was a privilege that had kept him coming back here for, again and again, despite all the risks. He usually didn’t take risks, not if there were alternatives, but sometimes life could give you small things that changed you and the way you saw the world.

 

“Will you fight on Raviyani?” Djari asked, resting her head on her arms. Next to her, Springer moved a little to be nearer but still kept a generous distance, waiting for her approval to approach. She made him wait on purpose, and then stretched out her arm for him to sniff, offering permission.

 

As it happened, Raviyani, a celebration held every full moon in the White Desert in honor of Ravi, was coming up in two days. On this night the entire khagan came together to participate in a series of events and competitions. From his understanding there would be duels covering a wide range of weapons, wresting matches, and horse racing, among other smaller events. It was the way they measured progress, how one gained recognition in the khagan. Winning at Raviyani was a big thing.

 

Recognition, however, wasn’t something he needed, unless, of course, if Djari demanded it of him. “If you want me to.”

 

She pressed her lips together and blinked a a few times. Djari did that whenever she was holding back a thought or a response. “You could win.”

 

He smiled, knowing how she must have wanted him to, but had refused to say it. She was careful with him, always setting her own boundaries as to how far she would influence his decision.

“Perhaps,” he said. He wasn't interested in winning. It complicated things, drew too much attention in a place where one wasn’t welcomed. You did only what was needed and never put yourself out there to be noticed, that was how you survived. Unless, of course, if being noticed was a matter of survival. “Will you fight?”

 

She shook her head slightly, staring up at the ceiling. “I would like to, but father would never allow it.”

 

“Not even in archery?”

 

“I could enter,” she said, a touch of tension in her tone, “but it would reflect badly on the khagan if our warriors lose to a girl. He didn’t want to take that chance.”

 

It wouldn’t even be a chance, Hasheem thought. Djari would win it. She was the best archer he’d seen, at least around the main camp. Za’in knew this, of course, and was bound by duty to make sure she didn’t enter the competition. There wasn’t a lot of room for her to move, not even out here in the desert. He was used to the idea, coming from Rasharwi and the Black Tower, but it pissed him off just the same.

 

“We can come back here,” he told her. “If that is what you want.” He knew how much Djari liked these training sessions, and he’d much rather be doing this than out there among the crowd.

 

She smiled, reaching out with both arms to give Springer a generous scratch on both sides of his neck. He liked it when she did that. She only gave him such reward when he showed proper respect. “You should be spending the night with a girl, not in the stable training me,” she said.

 

Raviyani was also an opportunity for young girls to seek her future husband and for boys to prove himself a worthy candidate, Djari had explained to him a few days before. Here, in the White Desert, women were considered daughters of Ravi and were given the right to choose the man to whom they offered their moonstones and eventually wed. The night of Raviyani, when the entire khagan made a visit to the main camp to celebrate and pay respect to their kha’a, was considered a perfect event for young people to meet, and an evening when fathers turned a blind eye over where their daughters chose to spend the night.

 

There would be girls coming to his tent, Djari had also told him, and that he would be expected to take an offer — or offers. He remembered wincing at that. While he had nothing against spending the night with a Shakshi girl, he was acutely aware of how many ways such a night could complicate his life afterwards. Then again, turning down an offer could also result in a different kind of complication altogether.

 

“What happens if I don’t want to?” It was his first Raviyani — he’d been too young to remember how it had been celebrated in his own khagan — and he’d yet to learn all the rules. Some traditions you just didn’t mess with, especially when honor was a life-defining thing in the desert.

 

Djari stilled for a time. Her lips stretched into a thin line the same way she always did whenever something troubled her. “You can choose to spend the night alone. Only it would damage your reputation,” she said reluctantly pausing a little to study his expression with obvious concern, “and as my sworn sword and blood —”

 

“It reflects badly on your family’s,” he said, sparing her the need to finish the sentence. It wasn’t difficult to understand. The kha’a and Nazir had supported the decision to make him her sworn sword and blood despite the numerous objections from the chiefs and likely the majority of the khagan. To turn down an offer from a girl on Raviyani could be considered disrespectful or even insulting. Spending the night alone would also put him in the same spot as the lesser men who couldn’t find a partner, and in turn reflected badly on the kha’a’s choice to honor and welcome him into the khagan. He didn’t have room to appear too incompetent, not without making it difficult on them. “I understand,” he added. Of course he did. He’d survived having to climb that ladder of acceptance, and knew better than anyone how crucial it was to keep the right reputation for someone in power. The only thing that surprised him was the fact that he hadn’t figured this out a long time ago.

 

A small sigh escaped her lips, and he could see a generous amount of weight disappearing from those slim shoulders when she’d heard his response. Djari must have been trying to tell him this for some time and had found it difficult to bring up. She could be blunt, but never with his feelings. Djari was firm with the horses when she needed to be, and sensitive to their moods when something bothered them. She handled him the same way, which made it easier for him to accept things.

 

“And you? Where will you be?”

 

She paused for a time, drew a breath and shifted her gaze back up to the ceiling. “Girls need to be sixteen to take a boy to bed, and then I can only choose the khumar I am promised to marry. Until then I spend the night with Nan’ya on Raviyani.”

 

“Only the khumar you are promised to marry?” It didn’t make sense to him, considering the freedom given to other girls.

 

Djari nodded, her expression hardened as she explained in the tone of someone far beyond her age, “There are only a handful of bharavis left in the White Desert outside of Citara. By the time I become of age there will be several offers from other khagans. A khumar may challenge another to secure a marriage with one if he’d shared her bed before and isn’t chosen, and a challenge involving khumars or kha’as are always fought to the death as befitting their honors. Every time that happens it can lead to conflicts between khagans. We try to avoid causing such conflicts when possible.” She paused for a time and then added, looking at him, “I cannot choose a man so lightly to share my bed with on Raviyani. He may die or he may start a war.”

 

It’s political, of course. He should have realized it even before he’d asked. Bharavis give birth to oracles, and even then not all of them do. The chance of having an oracle in one’s own khagan was, of course, worth going to war over (he could see that clearly now knowing what Nazir could do.) Everything Djari did mattered on a scale that would affect the entire desert. He could just imagine the amount of blood that would be shed and of gold changing hands before she turned eighteen and made her choice of a husband.

 

 _Before her father makes his choice,_ Hasheem corrected himself. The deal he would strike with the khagan she would marry into would be phenomenal enough to overrule any emotional preference from her. It was standard practice in the Tower for the princes and princesses, but he was surprised to find it also applied here in the White Desert. Not a pleasant surprise, if he were to be honest.

 

“What happens when you’re married?”

 

Djari’s expression grew harder at the question, and he knew he’d hit a sore spot. He hated seeing that look on her face. Hated it enough to want to kill whoever was the cause of it if he could, himself included.

 

“I’ll have to move to my new khagan, become khumari and answer to a new kha’a.”

 

A new kha’a, who had the power to move her at will before her husband took over the position. There would be two men, not one, who would hold a complete control over her life, and this time it wouldn’t be her own father, or Nazir. The thought of it and what could follow made him want to throw up, knowing what he knew from his life in Rasharwi. Djari seemed to be fully aware of this. She wasn’t the kind of girl who had fancy illusions about the world. Za’in izr Husari hadn’t raised his only daughter that way.

 

“As my sworn sword and blood you’ll come with me,” she added, turning to look at him questioningly. “If you want to, of course.”

 

That, too, had been a part of her concern for some time, and he knew immediately what such a statement implied. It would mean releasing him from the oath he’d taken if he decided not to go, which was something she’d always made clear she would do so at his request, or else she would consider it an act of slavery, and that she didn’t find acceptable even if her life depended on it. He had no doubt she would go to her new khagan alone even if it was the most hostile environment in the desert should he express a desire to stay and never so much as question it. Djari was Djari. Rules and responsibilities always came first, at the cost of her own feelings and everyone else’s. He’d come to understand this the night she’d killed her mother’s horse, and knew she would do more, much more for the sake of her own khagan.

 

And he, Hasheem realized suddenly, he would either have to settle with being dragged along for the ride, to watch her sacrifice a lot more than killing her horse to do what was right and not lift a finger, or he would have to leave her and be freed from his oath.

 

Free to do what exactly? To go back to a life with no goal, no responsibility, and no hope for anything but to survive each day in the world that had given him nothing but pain? It wasn’t even a choice. There hadn’t been much of a choice ever since she’d shot him with that arrow, and whatever choices he’d had left after that had disappeared altogether the night he’d taken her hand and decided there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

 

 _I am not going to die well for this_ , Hasheem thought, sighing mentally at his own helpless situation.

 

“I’ll go where you go,” he told her. “Just make sure their stable is big enough.”

 

She gave him a smile, and in that moment he knew, despite all the signs and warnings that went of in his head, that he would walk through fire and worse things for her, with or without the oath that bound them.

 

***

 

With Raviyani coming up, the entire khagan was busy with preparations for the celebration. Life in the White Desert revolved around Ravi and Raviyani. All the chores and activities were scheduled to not interfere with prayer time at dusk when the moon rises, which, of course, changes from season to season. Distribution of resources in the khagan were also calculated after enough reserves had been put aside for Raviyani of each month, with priority given to this single night above all else.

 

Having left the White Desert since he was a child, Hasheem couldn’t remember a single moment of how it had been celebrated in his own khagan, and he found himself speechless watching the scale of preparation involved for the event. The kha’a and Nazir had been so busy that they were forced to make decisions even at meal times, and no shortage of people were seen seeking an audience with one of the two from morning till night that sometimes the line wrapped itself twice over around their tents. The camp, usually well spaced and quiet, came alive became tightly packed with preparations for the feast and the entertainment. The women busied themselves making food and new clothes for the special night, while the men worked tirelessly to set up the fighting pit and clearing the space for the entire khagan to congregate. On the training ground, warriors in gray gathered in the largest number he’d ever seen for the time he’d been there to prepare for the duels and games that would be the main events of Raviyani.

 

Which was the reason why Hasheem found himself in the ring later that day, crossing swords with the one man that he’d been trying to avoid at his best effort for the past three weeks.

 

Zozi izr Zahan, first born of the chief of the southern camp and righthand man of the kha’a, was considered one of the most promising young man in the khagan. Just one year older than Hasheem, Zozi had reached the status of being the undefeated champion in most duels held on Raviyani among the gray warriors for three seasons to date, and had even been allowed at times to join the kha’a’s council when it was deemed acceptable. His father, Zahan izr Abari, being one of the most influential figures on the council had pushed (not so subtly) for it to secure the future of his son as soon as he had become old enough to be trained in khagan politics. From everyone’s unspoken understanding, Zozi was the best candidate for the position of khumar should Nazir fail to father a son to pass down the title, or should an untimely death found him before he could (which happened a lot in the desert.) Zozi knew this and had been preparing himself religiously for it by making sure every good thing he did was noticed by the kha’a, and that he was always included in the right circle where no one could question his reputation. To become khumar, however, Zozi needed both the votes from the chiefs and for Nazir to name him his successor before he could take over the title. The latter, of course, could be influenced with pressure from the council, or simply by being in Nazir’s good graces.

 

All this shouldn’t have had anything to do with Hasheem who wasn’t considered anything close to being competition in the political sense of it, had Nazir not used him deliberately to discourage izr Abari’s firstborn from being too eager become the next khumar. For the past few weeks, he’d been dragged around by Nazir to every tent he felt like stopping by for a drink or a game of doji that it was beginning to confuse people whose sworn sword he actually was. Coupled with the fact that he dined at the kha’a’s table nearly at every meal and shared every lesson with either Djari or Nazir, the privilege had been drawing so much attention that sometimes it seemed as if he had been walking around wearing Rashai colors without knowing. Having lived in the Black Tower and especially with Dee, Hasheem happened to know more than a little about politics and how to survive it, but for all his efforts to remain invisible, Nazir would see to it that he failed miserably for some reason he never cared to explain.

 

With such attention from Nazir, it, of course, casted a big shadow on Zozi’s path of popularity and had brought about quite a number of unfortunate, life-threatening events that seemed to have occurred out of the blue around Hasheem for the past three weeks. While having his saddle strap cut half way just before a race or his quiver replaced with defective arrows were considered child play compared to what he’d been through in the Tower and Sabha, one thing history had taught him was that petty insults could always escalate into being stabbed in the heart while he was sleeping. Consequently, Hasheem had made it a priority to avoid causing anymore conflict with the man for the past three weeks, including removing himself from all the places where they might have to meet and rearranging his plans to make sure they didn’t run into each other.

 

Thanks to Nazir who’d dragged him over, arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders, to the training ground that morning and made sure he offered himself as a training partner to Zozi, Hasheem found himself in the ring that day wondering whether he’d live to see his first Raviyani if he so much as gave the man a scratch.

 

Luckily for him, giving his opponent a scratch happened to be more of a challenge than a caution.

 

For all his eagerness and entitlement, Zozi izr Zahan was a remarkable fighter, more so and on an entirely different level than the impeccably trained highborns and princes of the Black Tower he’d come across. His footwork was ridiculously quick, and the precision of his strikes had not been easy to evade. Zozi trained with two blades, and they moved at the speed that was twice as quick as the other grays wielding just one.

 

Those blades weren’t light either, Hasheem realized, cursing inwardly and wincing at the bone-shattering impact climbing up his forearm every time he had to block an attack. The Shakshis had nothing on the Rashai’s ability to deliver insults or at weaving elaborate schemes to rise to power, but when it came to fighting skills, even the grays could best some of the most well-trained guards of the Tower. There was a good reason why people were so afraid of Zikh-clad warriors, Hasheem quickly discovered that the first week he’d spent among them. One would have to see how they trained and the tests they had to pass to understand why they were considered the deadliest in the peninsula. That knowledge, however, wasn’t helping in any way considering his current situation.

 

In less than ten engagements, his right shoulder was beginning to feel numb from receiving so many consecutive blows. Hasheem knew it won’t be long before he got himself cut by one or both of those blades, and from the look on his face, he was pretty sure Zozi had intended every wound he would cause to be painfully and embarrassingly deep. He was going to have to do something soon before he found himself being stitched up by Djari again, which wasn’t a pleasant thought given past experience.

 

Taking a few steps back to give himself room, Hasheem gripped harder on the hilt of his sword and decided to launch his own attack for the first time that morning. In response, Zozi’s fluid and precisely calculated footwork allowed him to slip away from the path of his blade so brilliantly that Hasheem found himself inwardly congratulating the man. Soon after, and with no surprise, he was knocked off his feet and lying on his back, staring at the tip of Zozi’s blade from the ground.

 

The crowd cheered as he pushed himself up, and Zozi turned a full circle to take in his accomplishment. His gaze swept over the crowd, noting and remembering every face that failed to deliver a compliment to pause at Nazir who stood there with his usual unimpressed, I-know-something-you-don’t expression. Nazir, who happened to be the one man Zozi needed to impress the most, was smiling, instead, not that him, but at his sister’s overprivileged sworn sword. It definitely didn’t go unnoticed, judging from the way Zozi was already staring daggers at him. And to make the matter worse, it was also Nazir who’d decided to offer Hasheem a hand and pulled him up from the ground.

 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, brushing the sand off his tunic before turning to Zozi and inclined his head in show of respect. It wasn’t acknowledged, not in the way he traditionally did with other opponents. His eyes were fixed on Nazir like a jealous wife to a cheating husband, and he was the mistress that got stuck in the middle. _Fucking marvelous._

 

“It was a good effort.” Nazir smiled and nodded, not bothering to take even a glance at Zozi who was still waiting to be noticed. “But you just cost me two silvers.”

 

Hasheem sighed at that. One of these days, he was going to die from Nazir’s choice of placing bets. “He’s too good a fighter. I could have told you before you put coins on it.”

 

“Is that so?” The grin on Nazir’s face was an unsettling one, and the tone he used had so many hidden meanings that Hasheem didn’t even want to start guessing. “Come,” Nazir’s eyes flickered past his shoulder as he said, “before Nakia brings you water. She’s already halfway here. That girl will cause more problem for you than winning a duel.”

 

Resisting the urge to turn around and look, Hasheem took the advice and let Nazir lead him out of the training ground. The girl Nazir mentioned, if he remembered correctly, was the green-eyed pureblood girl with golden brown hair from the southern camp who’d spoken to him a few times in the past week. She was one of the many that came to stay temporarily at the main camp to help prepare for Raviyani. “Why her?” He asked when they were out of earshot of the crowd.

 

“She’s the chief of treasury’s daughter. Her father’s vote is the most influential among my father’s council members. Long story short, Zozi needs to marry her if he wants to become khumar,” Nazir explained without slowing down the pace, as if to make sure no one would overhear them talking about the subject, “and she intends to bed you before this Raviyani is over.”

 

 _That_ , Hasheem swore inwardly, _would be a problem_. A big problem. “And you know this, how?”

 

He simply shrugged. “I have my sources.”

 

“In the women’s circle?” He was aware of Nazir’s eyes and ears around camp, but this particular insight couldn’t have come from drinking or wrestling with men.

 

“I happen to sleep with half the women’s circle,” Nazir said as-a-matter-of-fact-ly. “Why do you think they stay so long afterwards?”

 

Now that he thought more about it, it wasn’t hard to imagine Nazir staying up late gossiping with a girl or even in a tent full of girls. He was one of those people who could fit in anywhere and befriend anyone, and if he wanted you to spill some secrets you’d be spilling it without even knowing he was seeking one.

 

“Remind me,” he said wryly, “to never piss you off.” With or without his visions, Nazir was someone you couldn’t be careless with. Hasheem had learned that within the first few days of being around him. In many ways, Nazir did remind him of Dee.

 

“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling one of those harmless smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I’m not easily pissed, unless, of course, you decide to do something stupid or suicidal that would require my involvement.” He paused, waiting for him to rise to the occasion. Nazir did that a lot. It was a test of some sort, a measurement of whether someone was worth his time and attention.

 

He did, after some consideration, rise to the occasion. “Like what, for example?”

 

A breeze swirled at Nazir’s feet and then settled. Suddenly the camp grew quiet. Hasheem could hear the birds flapping their wings in the sky, the sound of sand shifting underneath Nazir’s boots as he walked.

 

“Like taking Nakia to bed,” he said, and then turned, ceasing his steps, to look at him, “or my sister.”

 

Hasheem nearly choked at the knife-to-the-throat statement. Nazir could be subtle, and then brutally direct when he needed to be. It had to be stated at one point, of course. He was, in a way, inappropriately close to her, and would always be for as long as he kept his oath.

 

“What makes you think I’m stupid enough for the first, or suicidal enough for the latter?” It would have been both for the latter. Djari was off limits, in the way that it could wipe out the entire khagan if one were to cross such a line, and it wouldn’t be the first time people went to war over a girl. Or what _appeared_ to be over a girl, Hasheem corrected himself.

 

There was a small pause from Nazir. His unnerving yellow eyes remained on Hasheem, studying his expression. He said, “Love can make a man do stupid things.”

 

It could, Hasheem thought, for most people.

 

“Like what?” He asked, chuckling at the thought that suddenly occurred to him. “Pitch the idea of eloping or betraying her duty to Djari and hope to survive?” It would take an imbecile worth exiling — or executing — to even try. “You couldn’t _talk_ to Djari about breaking a rule without having her recite the list of limbs she’d see removed if you do — in _proper_ order. Whether or not I happen to be that stupid is completely irrelevant. The way I see it, there is no point to this conversation whatsoever if you know anything about your sister.” He had to say it, even knowing it might have been considered too close to disrespecting a khumar. The truth was, it really didn’t matter what he or anyone did. One could die trying to move Djari, literally, if she didn’t want to be moved.

 

Nazir blinked a few times, obviously surprised by the response, then his brows furrowed. “In proper order?”

 

“In proper order,” Hasheem confirmed with a deadly serious expression.

 

The laughter that followed was full of delight. There was no a small amount of love and affection for his sister on Nazir’s face, and he didn’t try to hide it. Hasheem smiled, and decided that he liked the khumar.

  
“Well then, that settles everything, doesn’t it?” Nazir said, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was warm and steady, not too different from the way it felt being with Djari in the stable. “Come to my tent before dusk. I’m having dinner with the chief of the northern camp. You’re coming with me.”

 

Hasheem sighed heavily at that. It didn’t leave a lot of room for objection, not that one could say no to a khumar’s direct command, especially if that khumar happened to know all your life-threatening secrets. He’d given up trying to think about what Nazir was planning to do with him for some time. You couldn’t do that and hope to be right, unless you knew what he knew.

 

 _Go west_ , Dee had said. He might have pissed off his former employer one too many times, but surely this was going a bit far where payback was concerned.

 

***

 

Later that evening after dinner with the chief, Nazir dismissed the guards and rode back alone with him. They discussed inconsequential things — the food, the wine, the tapestry that adorned the table. Nazir seemed to be in a good mood, taking his time, despite the obvious, more private issue hanging in the air that had called for the guards to be dismissed in the first place.

 

The events of that night surprised him a little, Hasheem thought, reining his horse to fall in step with the khumar’s. It had been a rather casual meal and one that seemed to have been held for a doubled purpose of introducing him to the chief and as a friendly visit from the kha’a’s family. Being a new member of the khagan and Djari’s sworn sword and blood, he could understand the need for introduction, but didn’t think it was important enough for such things to be done so officially over a long dinner. Their interest in him had been obvious, however, probably due to the way Nazir had been keeping him too unconventionally close lately. It would spark an interest in anyone looking for power, of course. Nazir was the future kha’a, the crown prince of the khagan in a sense, and in the world of politics anyone close to him would obviously be used like pieces of bones on a doji board, including him, in this case. Being close to those in power, or _having_ power, did that to you.

 

“What do you think about Khodi?” Nazir asked, his expression was hard to read in the low light. He was referring to the chief’s firstborn son who was roughly the same age as Nazir, or a little older, if his guess was right.

 

“He seems very brave and honorable,” Hasheem replied, thinking of the young man who’d appeared every bit a perfect representation of what a White Warrior should be, right down to the missing wrinkles on his Zikh.

 

“He is,” Nazir said. “But what do you _really_ think of him?”

 

Hasheem resisted the urge to sigh at that. There seemed to be nothing he could keep from Nazir. “That would depend,” he said, half stalling for time to decide how to respond, and half trying to read where Nazir was going with this.

 

“On what?”

 

“On why you need to know.” Opinions changed under different circumstances. It was all a matter of perspectives, and until he knew Nazir’s motive, it wasn’t considered safe to give his opinions freely.

 

Hasheem half expected a retort of some sort for his response. As khumar, it was likely and perfectly within his power to not explain himself. People in power rarely did. Nazir’s thoughtful silence surprised him, so was the nod of agreement that followed.

 

“I will need my own council when I become kha’a,” Nazir said, looking out to the horizon where light from the main camp could now be seen not too far away.

 

The reply unsettled him a little. It was a piece of information he wasn’t supposed to know, a big piece for that matter. Nazir was already looking for figures to fill his future council using these casual dinners and late night drinking as an opportunity to measure his men. He was making plans, setting up the pieces on the doji board in preparation. Hasheem didn’t want to imagine how much and how quickly things would change around camp if one word of it got out that he was already looking for new figures on the next council. It would be unexpected. The kha’a was still in his prime, and Nazir was very young, too young to be thinking of his such things.

 

Unless, of course, he knew something they didn’t. That thought stirred him a little.

 

“In which case,” Hasheem said, trying to decide whether he should be impressed at how competent this young khumar was or be more afraid of him, “the man is arrogant and a fool who should never be allowed to handle big decisions.” It was a big leap of faith he was taking, but not any bigger than what Nazir had just done. He could get into trouble for saying such things to the wrong man, and was hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be a huge mistake.

 

The corner of Nazir’s lips lifted into a grin. “Out of curiosity. Why?”

 

Hasheem smiled at the question he’d guessed would follow. Asking why was a sign of intelligence, and he had come to know how well equipped Nazir was in that department. “He took too much space at the table and adjusted the Zikh one too many times. Only an arrogant fool would care more about his appearance than the fact that you’d actually brought me along as an opening for him to make a move.” Or as bait, for that matter. “The younger brother, however, is a different story. That one would make a good strategist. If you want my opinion.”

 

“Khali?” Nazir raised a brow. “How so?”

 

“He wanted to know who braided my hair.”

 

Nazir thought for a moment and nodded. “And in knowing so would tell him how close you are to my family. That’s why you didn’t tell him.”

 

“He’ll find out tomorrow,” Hasheem said, glancing at Nazir, “when he sends someone to deliver a jar of that fig jam you like so much. Did you notice he gave the order to refill your plate twice?” The boy couldn’t have been more than sixteen. It would take a highly observant person to notice these things at that age, unless he’d been trained specifically to.

 

“ _Before_ I finished the jam. Both times.” Nazir added, guiding Springer a little closer to Hasheem’s horse. “Khodi is too ambitious, too full of himself but easier to control and manipulate. I am,” Nazir’s brows narrowed thoughtfully, “trying to decide if Khali is to too good to be left out of it or too dangerous to be kept unwatched.”

 

Hasheem found himself sneering a little at the implication of those words. Nazir didn’t need his opinion. He already knew all these things, which gave him one important question to address. “You were testing me. Why?” Now he wasn’t so sure that dinner was all about Nazir checking out the two boys. How many birds exactly did this man expect to kill with one stone, he wondered.

 

The grin on Nazir’s face was wide, letting him know that he was adequately impressed, or perhaps it was simply a sign of pleasure over being right. “Djari will need someone who knows politics, when the time comes. And I want you on the council.”

 

That surprised him, and not in a good way. Understanding khagan politics to support Djari he could understand, but to sit at Nazir’s council was going a bit far, if at all possible. “Why me?”

 

“Why not you?”

 

Another test, that.

 

“I’m an outsider. A stranger to the khagan. My experience —“

 

“Is more valuable than my father’s entire council’s combined,” said Nazir, turning to look at him.

 

“You survived for half a decade in Rasharwi after having pulled yourself out of the gutter and into the inner circle of Tower. You understand politics, know every corner of Sabha and the Black Tower inside out. You _know_ everything we need to win this war. With all that skills and insights,” he paused and smiled, “you don’t really think you’re here to keep my sister entertained in the stable, do you?”

 

Hasheem’s mouth dropped opened at the revelation. It wasn’t so much about his past — he already knew it had been revealed to a certain extent in Nazir’s visions — but that last bit of awareness about the stable had caught him off guard.

 

“Yes, I know about your training sessions. No, I’m not going to tell the kha’a although I believe he already knows,” Nazir cut him off and waved the issue away as though it held no significance whatsoever.

 

It took Hasheem a while to process the magnitude of information being dumped on him over a simple, short ride back to camp, and he wondered how long Nazir had been working towards this night, what else the man really knew. The irony of it was, that for all his skills and insights Nazir had just claimed he possessed, he’d failed miserably to see this coming.

 

“That’s impossible. I can’t get a Zikh.” The entire council members were White Warriors, if he recalled correctly.

 

“Owning a Zikh is not a requirement,” Nazir replied quickly, as if the issue had occurred to him and had been resolved a long time ago. “And I may be able to get you adopted when I’m kha’a. You’ll get your Zikh then. If that is what you want.”

 

He didn’t want to become a White Warrior. He never had. The idea of being bound by another oath was unwelcoming to him. Djari might like that, however. He could just imagine her grinning from ear to ear to have a Zikh-clad sworn sword, and that might just be the only reason he’d do it if he ever did. Still, there was another problem.

 

“They’ll never accept me on the council.” Being a council member was a position of immense power in the khagan, they’d have to accept his authority, to let him lead, and he was an outsider, a stranger who didn’t even grow up in the desert. A _stray_ , to make the matter worse. As things stood, it was hard enough to get past one day at camp without someone trying to trip him over out of spite, literally.

 

“They will,” Nazir said without a trace of doubt in his tone, “when you start winning duels at Raviyani and quit hiding behind that rock pretending to fail at everything for the comfort of being invisible.”

 

Hasheem drew a breath and tried to study Nazir’s expression. It was, as always, unreadable. “What makes you think I’m pretending?”

 

“Now you insult my intelligence.”

It could be considered an insult, trying to hide things from an oracle, Hasheem sighed mentally at that thought. He might as well come clean with it, knowing Nazir.

 

“I happen to enjoy the comfort of being invisible.” The truth was, he knew all the stakes, what it would take for him to fit in and become accepted, but being a real part of the khagan and holding such a power was to belong and commit himself to a lot of things he’d been trying to avoid. At the moment he was only tied to Djari, and that was already too much of a risk in his opinion. He’d had a khagan, a family, a few friends, someone he’d come to care about. They were all gone, all of them. He wasn’t going to go through that again.

 

You can’t lose what never belongs to you.

 

“It will never last, and you know it,” said Nazir, more seriously now. “You were born for so much more than what you are now. That rock you are hiding behind isn’t big enough for you. That,” he said crisply, finally, “is a _vision_.”

 

Hasheem closed his eyes and swallowed hard at the sudden revelation of a fate he didn’t find welcoming. It meant that he had no choice in the matter, if he were to believe the accuracy of Nazir’s gift, which, unfortunately, had so far been accurate to the tiniest details. Oracles can be such a pain sometimes.

 

Still, what happens in the future is the future. A man could try to stall fate if he couldn’t change it, couldn’t he? “It’s big enough for now,” he told Nazir, “and my answer is no. I have agreed to be bound by one oath only. No more.”

 

It wasn’t even a decision to make. With power comes responsibilities. Hard decisions that led to sacrifices, or else you use it only for your advantage. Those were the only two choices. You become a tyrant or a martyr, never something in between when your decisions affect the lives of other people. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself being the first, and one would have to still be able to make sacrifices for the second. He _had_ sworn an oath that would require him to sacrifice much for Djari, but that would be considered for a personal reason. For the greater good, or for the sake of this khagan, that was another story.

 

“There may be time,” Nazir said with a tone that sent a chill running down his spine, “when that oath requires you to take another.”

 

Hasheem drew a breath. Anger rising in his chest. He knew exactly what it meant, how easy it would be for someone like Nazir to make it happen. “And you would go that far to bend a man to your grand design.”

 

“For the love of my land? Absolutely,” he pronounced, each word ringing sharp and clear like the gleam of a newly broken shards of obsidian. “So would Djari.”

 

It would always come down to this, Hasheem thought, gripping tighter the leather of his rein, feeling it dug deep into his palm. Would there ever be a time in his life when he wasn’t attached to some shackles, when he wasn’t being used by someone? He should have known better. He really should have.

 

“Of course,” he said with an obvious edge to his tone. “And you bothered telling me this. Why? So I wouldn’t make too much of a fuss when you need something done? When the _both_ of you decide which strings to pull and when?”

 

Nazir’s expression grew cold at that. It was meant to be an attack on his honor, and he was glad he could inflict a wound, even if a small, insignificant one.

 

“Believe me,” he said, his amber eyes glowing brightly, like a ghost that had just been disturbed from its resting place, “if I wanted to pull those strings you’ll still be in someone’s bed right now doing what you do best behind closed doors to get me what I need. And you’ll do it,” he paused, smilingviciously now, “if I only propose to tell Djari every little thing you don’t want her to know.”

 

How much of an ignorant fool could he be, Hasheem thought, to ever think that he could care about something without paying a price for it? He’d been expecting a different threat. A revelation of his past to the council, perhaps, or something of the sort, if it ever came to that. It would mean execution, and he might still consider that an option to die with at least some of his pride intact — whatever was left of it. But there was dying, and then there was being considered unworthy by Djari. The latter just wasn’t an option, not for him. Nazir knew this, and had decided to strike at him where it hurt the most.

 

“Of course. That is why I’m here. Why you suggested that she takes me as her sworn sword and blood. Tell me,” he said with a sharpness to his tone he no longer cared to hide, “did you even hesitate when you switched the arrow to bring me into this, or when you decided to put me back in shackles, knowing what you knew?”

 

He wasn’t sure what bothered him more — being used by the enemies that had burned down his home, or the people that were _supposed_ to help defend it. They were beginning to look the same to him, the longer he stayed around here. Except Djari, whoshould have been the only one with the right to move him at will, but had never wanted to.

 

Nazir drew a breath, as if to still something within, and then released it with a heavy sigh. “What should matter to you, is not whether I hesitated, but that I have _chosen_ to tell you this tonight despite the power I possess to do otherwise, to give you a _choice_ that no one had ever given you.”

 

A gust of wind rushed by them from the south, pushing back the hood of Nazir’s robe and revealing the straight, silvery strands of his hair that looked nearly identical to Djari’s. Nearly, except that Nazir’s was almost white, and carried with it an air of something eerie and terrifying especially at night, like a being that was out of this world, and belonging nowhere.

 

“You can choose to be a part of this and make something out of it, or you can wait for fate to drag you along. That is why we are going to my tent to have a civilized conversation over a drink,” he said, his lips pulled back into a playful grin, “where I hope my irresistible charm and a promise of good wine would be enough to seduce you to my cause. What do you say?”

 

Hasheem stilled for a time, considering the proposal he hadn’t seen coming. In a way, Nazir had a point. There had been no need for him to hold back until now if he’d had an intention to pull those strings, or to tell him the things he had tonight, including his own secrets and plans for the future. He was trying to be nice — as nice as his position and duty could allow it. Still, there existed a feeling, a small hunch in the pit of his stomach that this could be nothing more than Nazir’s unfailing ability to wrap people around his fingers.

 

“And if my answer is still no?”

 

“Then we will drink and talk,” Nazir said, leaning forward to give Springer a few pats on the neck. “I can also use a friend who doesn’t want to kill me to become khumar. I was hoping you wouldn’t say no to that at least.”

 

For a moment that lasted too short, Hasheem thought he saw a glimpse of vulnerability in Nazir’s eyes. There was always a sense of bleakness in the air around Nazir and Djari, a feeling of isolation that hung around them like shadows. He’d had the same feeling watching the Salar lounging alone on his balcony from the bottom of the Tower, or Za’in izr Husari standing outside his tent looking up at the stars when everyone else had gone to sleep. _It’s always colder on top of the mountain_ , someone had said. The truth was, where isolation was concerned, he was no stranger to the feeling, even if for a completely different reason, and perhaps it was why he’d decided to say what he did — an action that would forever change his life among the Visarya afterwards.

 

“I can’t say much about your charm,” he told Nazir, “but I’m not one to turn down a promise of good wine.”


	9. Collision

“She’s nervous.” Djari grimaced as she ran her hand along Twilight’s neck, feeling the mare’s pulse.

 

The horse was fidgeting a little, not an action that would have alarmed Hasheem, but one didn’t question Djari about her horses, not when she spent half her days in the stable, and slept in it several nights a month.

 

“I can take Bruiser,” he said.

 

She shook her head. “Bruiser won’t be able to keep up with Nazir, and he gets jumpy in a big crowd,” she said, then hesitated a little before arriving at a decision. “Take Summer.”

 

Summer was Djari’s colt, her personal mount and their best horse next to Springer. If he took Summer… “Who will you ride?”

 

“No one,” she said. “I’m not coming.”

 

The answer surprised him, and not in a good way. He had expected to be accompanying her. This was a ceremonial hunt, done in the afternoon of the same day before each Raviyani to bring back desert gazelles as holy offerings to Ravi. From what he’d been told, there would be over a hundred riders participating in the event. She would have been with a big crowd, and safety shouldn’t have been a concern. “You can’t or you won’t?”

 

“I have … things to do,” Djari said, keeping her gaze on Twilight, her lips stretched into a thin line and pressed tight together.

 

Hasheem knew that look. It was a choice she didn’t want to make — one that had obviously been influenced by something else other than her own preference. He could tell by now when that happened, and that day it was all over her face how hard the decision had been. “Then I don’t need to go,” he told her. With all things considered, it made no sense for him to be there without Djari in any case.

 

“You should go,” she said, looking at him thoughtfully now. “If Nazir wants you there then he has a reason. Besides, it’s your first Raviyani. You’ll enjoy it.”

 

Hasheem doubted it. He’d never been someone who found hunting an enjoyable sport. There was nothing thrilling about chasing down helpless animals, not when he’d led the life he had. But whether or not he would enjoy the event wasn’t the problem. The problem was the fact that Nazir definitely _had_ a reason to want him there, which was precisely why he was having second thoughts about this whole idea. One never knew what an oracle could be planning — or seeing.

 

The sound of someone entering the stable drew their attention to the gate. Down the corridor towards the entrance, Nazir appeared in his spotless white robe. The Zikh had been freshly pressed, Hasheem noticed, and over it hung a sash of blue and gold— the colors representing the Visarya. His hair, neatly braided in White Warrior style, also had blue and gold threads in them. He wore a dagger and a long blade at his waist, and carried a bow and a quiver on his back, all of which were either heavily gilded or painted in the same symbolic colors.

 

Hasheem drew a breath at the sight that was entirely new to him. Nazir was in his most formal attire, which meant that he would be addressing a khumar, not Djari’s brother, or a friend. It also meant that the hunt held lot more significance than he’d originally thought. Nazir wasn’t a man of excess. He wore the Zikh only sometimes, his everyday sword was unadorned and ordinary, and his boots were usually heavily used and stained. They were brand new today, Hasheem noted as he stole an appraising gaze at the khumar. Nazir was making a statement with this, or he wouldn’t have appeared that way.

 

Next to him, Djari was blinking in surprise. Apparently, she hadn’t seen him in that get up many times either.

 

“He’s letting you lead the hunt today?” She asked, stepping forward to take a good look at her brother.

 

“He told me he’s too old to be chasing gazelles.” Nazir shrugged.

 

She shook her head slightly, then reached over to straighten the sash for him. “You know he isn’t.”

 

Nazir’s smile was gentle. It always was with Djari. “I know he isn’t.”

 

They exchanged a look, and an understanding seemed to pass readily between them. It was in these moments, that Hasheem could see how strong their bond had been, how much love there was. Words weren’t always needed with these two. They understood each other the way no one else could. He had come to like watching them.

 

“Are you nervous?” Djari asked. There was a touch of concern in her tone, perhaps even fear. Not ] something he would have expected under the circumstances. This was to be Nazir’s first time leading the hunt on his own, Hasheem had come to understand from the brief conversation. The kha’a was making room for Nazir to secure the respect and acceptance from the khagan. They would now see him at the hunt and begin to look to him as their leader. If anything, it should have been a cause for celebration for the both of them. Unless there was something about the hunt he didn’t know.

 

They would see him too, next to Nazir, Hasheem realized. That wasn’t a comforting thought, given that he’d already declined Nazir’s offer the other night.

 

“Maybe a little,” Nazir said before turning to him. “Not as much as this one, I’m sure.”

 

Hasheem rolled his eyes. “Who wouldn’t be, seeing you in that?”

 

Nazir snorted. “You just wait until Nan’ya gets her hands on you tonight. She was sorting out ribbons this morning.”

 

He swore, and Djari laughed at that. It would have been worth wearing ribbons, Hasheem thought. She didn’t laugh very often.

 

Behind them, the guards carried in a saddle. Nazir followed them to Springer’s stall and stood by to watch the men saddle his horse. They did so with unusual attention to detail, checking every buckle twice and smoothing the blanket underneath, making sure the borders were perfectly even on both sides. It was the first time Hasheem had seen them put so much effort on dressing up a horse. This was truly no small matter for the Visarya, and it was giving him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Take Summer,” Djari repeated, handing him the saddle that had been originally prepared for Twilight. He took it, this time without question. Springer was being saddled, and his horse had to be done before the khumar’s.

 

Djari held the rein as he mounted, rubbing down her horse and gave it a few soothing words as she did.She checked his stirrups, and then handed him the bow and quiver. “Keep up with Nazir,” she said discreetly, not smiling now. “Stay close to him. It will be more difficult if you fall behind. Accidents happen during the hunt.”

 

He nodded, taking the rein from her and patted Summer on the neck.

 

“The first shot is Nazir’s, and after that it’s fair game,” she continued. “Bring down the adult males only. Never the females.”

 

He didn’t like the sound of that, or of any of it actually. “What happens if I mess up?”

 

“Don’t do that,” she said gravely. “They won’t let you hunt again for a year if you kill a female. More, if she is pregnant. Also, you’ll probably die if you fall off the horse, or if you accidentally kill someone. Make sure your way is clear before you loose your arrow.”

 

Hasheem resisted the urge to sigh and curse loudly at Nazir as he listened to her instructions and warnings. Not all of it made sense to him, and he was beginning to wonder if his previous understanding of hunting had been a complete misinterpretation of the word.

 

“Any more ways I might die from this?” _You’ll enjoy it,_ she’d said. The definition of enjoyment, Hasheem decided, was definitely different in the White Desert.

 

“Yes,” Djari replied in her most serious tone. “You hurt my horse, and I’ll kill you.”

 

That, he didn’t have a doubt.

 

“I won’t,” he assured her.

 

He waited for Nazir to mount up and head out of the stable, then followed a few paces behind. Outside, a band of riders in equally formal attire were waiting. Fourteen warriors would accompany the khumar to the hunt that day. Fourteen men, each one hand-picked by Nazir to ride out with him. They were the candidates for Nazir’s future council, Hasheem noticed, all wearing a Zikh, except for the two grays among them. Hasheem had expected Zozi to be there, as a gesture of respect towards his ambitious father. The other gray, however, took him by a surprise.

 

A surprise, because the older brother wasn’t there.

 

Next to Zozi, Khali sat his white stallion with an ease of someone who’d been invited to join the leading party a dozen of times, only Hasheem knew he hadn’t. The chief’s younger son, physically small and more lithe than muscular compared to the other grays in general, didn’t seem at all intimidated by the White Warriors around him, despite being the youngest in the party. Leaning back leisurely on his saddle, Khali’s half amused, half uninterested expression could easily pass him off as a lazy, unimportant young man who was simply there to pass time.

 

If one were ignorant enough to pass him off as such, of course, Hasheem thought, watching those pale green eyes turned from one face to another, seeing how they noted the smiles, the braids, the Zikh (and the wrinkles on them), along with the tiniest details in the way someone sat his horse or how tightly a man held his rein. The same thing Hasheem had been doing, looking at him.

 

Those eyes came to rest on Hasheem. He answered the gaze with a blank expression and a polite nod of acknowledgment. Khali stared for a moment, took a glance at Summer and then smiled. The fact that he was riding Djari’s horse had been registered, of course, and would certainly be used in the future, Hasheem was certain.

 

 _Too good to be left out, or too dangerous to be kept unwatched,_ Nazir’s words echoed in his mind. It would appear that Nazir had decided on the latter to have invited him here without the brother. The question was, would the boy be less dangerous under watch?

 

Nazir snapped a command, and fifteen warriors including the khumar began their ride towards the hunting ground to be met by the rest of the young men of Visarya along the way. _Fifteen White Desert warriors and a stray_ , Hasheem corrected himself and sighed. He was the only one not wearing white or gray, and with no reason to be there besides that it pleased the khumar. Nazir, he realized, for all that talk about giving him choices, had never intended to take no for an answer.

 

The hunting ground was an hour ride north from the main camp. An hour of flat-out continuous gallop on the toughest horses in the peninsula, to be more precise. It wouldn’t have been possible without these mounts, not where they were and not at such a pace. Having adapted to the desert for generations, the Shakshi’s horses could endure a ride at bone-breaking speed without rest or water over a ridiculously long distance and period of time. The best, however, were from the Vilarhiti mountain range in the north. They were the fastest and the toughest horses in the peninsula, tall and beautiful and the best ones were said to be worth their weight in gold. Springer was one of those considerably rare Vilarian horses found in the western region of the desert, and it was no surprise why they all found it so difficult to keep up with Nazir.

 

There used to be more of them around before the Salar had taken over the Vilarhiti, Djari had told him. “The Rashais have our best horses now. Thousands of them,” she’d said angrily, rubbing down Springer one morning as if it had been her horses they’d taken. Then again, losing the Vilarhiti and those horses was a catastrophe for the Shakshis. The right horses could win you a war. They could shift the balance of power if one knew how to use them, and they had fallen into the hands of a man who knew exactly how to use them.

 

The Salar had been breeding them for over a decade — quite successfully so — in the royal stable. A number of these horses had also been given as gifts to the important figures in the Tower since the taking of Vilarhiti. He wondered what Djari would say if she knew how common they had become among the elites of Rasharwi. Dee, too, had twenty of these horses — the original ones taken from the valleys of Vilarhiti no less. Hasheem could still remember him strolling through the stable, admiring them and saying out loud how clever such a move had been for the young man who was now the Salar of Rasharwi to have won him over with these horses. _“It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”_ Dee had said. _“How just twenty horses could change the fate of the entire peninsula when given to the right person?”_

 

Twenty Vilarian horses had, indeed, made sure the right people conveniently died in a timely manner (or untimely, depending on whose perspective it was) to open up a path to the throne.

 

He could use one of those horses at the moment, Hasheem thought bitterly. They were made for this, not holed up in some fancy stables in the city. In fact, he might have been riding one now had the Vilarhiti not fallen.

 

The hunting party, led by the khumar and his fifteen escorts, was joined by the young men waiting along the route. They were mostly grays with a few White Warriors in the mix, and in the end they amounted to about a hundred riders. From his understanding, only twenty hunters were painstakingly tried and selected from each of the four camps surrounding the main compound of the kha’a to attend the hunt, not including the ones that had been handpicked by the ruling family themselves to participate. According to Djari, it was a great honor to be at the hunt on Raviyani, and one’s entire family status would be elevated in the khagan when a son was selected. Now that Hasheem was in the middle of it, he could understand why.

 

The ride was brutal, for lack of a better word, and worse when one had to keep up with Nazir, who happened to be a superb rider riding on the back of a Vilarian horse no less. They were running on hard ground with enough rocks and stones along the path to trip any horse with a less careful rider. The trail, narrow and flanked by steep cliffs on both sides most of the way, was covered by a thin layer of sand that turned the immediate surrounding into what resembled a sandstorm kicked up by more than a hundred horses at full gallop. Around him, the sound of hoofbeats roared like a continuous, never ending, thunder, making the ride as deafening as it was blinding. Together, they drowned out most of the senses one might need to succeed in what could only be called an act of suicide.

 

It _was_ an act of suicide, Hasheem thought, especially for those who didn’t have enough skills or experience on horseback, or the trust of one’s horse. Pulling the scarf Djari had insisted he wore over his face and securing it with both hands, he guided Summer quickly away from a small rock that suddenly appeared in front of him with his knees. The colt jumped to the right, and almost collided with another horse when a different rider, having just been forced to execute a small leap to evade another obstacle in his way, landed in front of him. Hasheem swore under his breath, leaned back his weight and tugged hard on the rein to back up and avoid collision. Summer, startled by the unexpected interruption, reared up his two front legs, neighing loudly as he did. Catching himself just in time as he slid down Simmer’s back, Hasheem grabbed onto the mane and narrowly escaped being unhorsed from the commotion.

 

The small pause had, however, cost him a sizable distance between him and Nazir, and Hasheem found himself being caught in the worst part of the party. Space tightened threefold around the middle of the stampede, where a larger number of riders in the back who were trying to push forward merged with those already nearer to the front trying to stay in it. Hasheem scanned the surrounding quickly and realized the safer place to be were either the far back or at the very front close to Nazir where there were more room to ride. It would be easier to fall back, of course, and he’d thought of doing just that to avoid falling and being trampled to death on his first Raviyani — _before_ his first Raviyani. Then the rider next to him fell, and Hasheem watched in horror at how quickly the man had disappeared into the storm of sand and the thundering hooves coming from behind. The fall went on to disrupt a number of horses behind him, causing havoc at the rear end of the party which resulted in two more riders falling off their horse from the commotion.

 

The back wasn’t an option, Hasheem decided, pushing Summer forward as he did. The safest place to be was around Nazir, where less horses were able to catch up with him, and those who could were riding carefully around their khumar. Djari knew this, had warned him of it before they’d ridden out of the stable, and had even given him the horse to do just that.

 

Looking down at Summer and the riders in front of him, Hasheem made the one decision necessary to survive. He shortened the rein, leaned forward, and kicked Djari’s horse into a full gallop despite the lack of room and the number of riders he had to pass. Soon enough, Summer, confident, sure-footed, and quick as a cat, was making his way through the crowd at mind-numbing speed, turning cleanly and swiftly left and right around the other riders at the slightest pressure from his knees. He was one hell of a horse, Hasheem thought breathlessly, realizing for the first time the true extent of the privilege he’d been given. He’d ridden Dee’s Valerians on occasions, but never at such speed, or under such a circumstance that would have brought out the best of their abilities, and yet he highly doubted they could be much better than this. Summer was brilliant in both soundness and skills, and Hasheem found himself admiring Djari endlessly in the back of his mind for having shaped and created such a magnificent horse. All the family mounts were trained by Djari, and she’d disciplined them to the point of obeying her like the most impeccably loyal soldiers. It was for this, and the fact that Summer was her most frequent horse, that Hasheem thought was the single, most logical reason why he’d survived the hunt that day.

 

In just moments, he found himself back at the front where Nazir and the rest of the leading party had been once again. A few paces in front of him was Zozi and Khali, following closely behind their khumar to the right. They turned to look at him in surprise. Khali flashed him a quick, amused smile, while Zozi, as expected, looked half surprised, half disappointed he hadn’t died already.

 

The truth was, he was surprised himself he hadn’t, and perhaps also a little disappointed at having survived considering the fact that he might have to do this all over again if it pleased the khumar, perhaps for every Raviyani even.

 

The thought suddenly made him understand something that hadn’t occurred to him before. Something that changed a lot of things for Hasheem.

 

They did this every Raviyani, he reminded himself. Every month the new generation of gray warriors put their lives on the line for what was considered a ceremonial ride, a game, to test and sharpen their skills. There were riders as young as ten among them (six was how early some started training), and he counted at least eight riderless horses along the way. There would be more casualties before the hunt was over, and not all of them were going to make it, not in that kind of stampede. The riders hadn’t slowed down or even glanced at those who’d fallen. They were used to this, to dying and being killed, to riding out from families and lovers on a day they were supposed to be celebrating knowing they might not return.

 

It dawned on him that day, in the middle of the race to the hunting ground, that he was now living among the hardest people in the peninsula, and that he was being forged by this, willingly or not, into something equally hard and might actually be seen as one of them from the eyes of an outsider.

 

But he _was_ one of them, Hasheem corrected himself, feeling something growing in his chest, filling it until it was difficult to breathe. They _were_ his people, had been from the very beginning despite all the years that had kept him away from the desert, or how they still saw him as a stranger. He could feel it here, now, the way his heart was pounding almost in the same rhythm as the beating of the horses’ hooves as they struck the ground. The excitement in the air that filled his lungs to the point of almost bursting as he rode high and weightless on the back of a horse. The rushing and pumping of blood in his veins that made him feel so alive in the midst of all this madness. It was in his flesh and blood, built-in to his very instinct, this yearning to embrace the constant challenge of death and danger, of facing and conquering his worst fears, as a part of what life was supposed to be. This was who he was, who he had always been and where he was supposed to be all along.

 

It was also why he’d survived in Rasharwi, Hasheem realized. He was a Shakshi. Hardships and warfare were his people’s occupation, so were the ability to endure them and prevail that had been passed down for generations to every Shakshi man, woman, and child. This was the reason the Salasar had never conquered the White Desert. You couldn’t break people who lived to defy death everyday while hiding behind the safety of a wall. Not without wounding yourself gravely in the process.

 

He remembered asking Dee about that — about how Salar Muradi had done it, how the Vilarhiti had been taken. “ _With half the Salasar’s army,_ ” Dee had said. “ _Dead_ ,” he’d added. Half of almost the Salasar’s soldiers never returned from that valley. The loss had been so great that it had taken them a decade to rebuild such a force and replenish the supplies that had been lost in the massacre. They had the Vilarhiti but lacked the resources to go on with the campaign. With a damaged army, the other acquired provinces had also taken the opportunity to rise up and rebelled for a chance to break free from the Salasar, resulting in another decade-long internal conflict Muradi had had to deal with. Even though he’d eventually succeeded without losing a single one after a long, hard battle against three provinces at the same time, it had kept the Salar’s army from marching into the White Desert again for eighteen years.

 

To most people, the conquering of the Vilarhiti was seen as the biggest achievement in the history of the Salasar. Those who had been directly involved in it, however, might be caught saying, behind closed doors and amongst most trusted companions, that it was the biggest mistake Salar Muradi had ever made, victoriously or not. But he had long since learned from that mistake, and could be expected to not make it again. “ _The next time he decided to strike, it would be a war to end all wars,_ ” Dee had said. And he would strike, eventually. Everyone knew this. The massacre at Vilarhiti had left a scar too deep for a conquerer like Salar Muradi to not seek retribution. It was why he’d kept a bharavi by his bed — the same reason Za’in izr Husari kept his wife’s setting at the dining table every night until now.

 

There was pride in all this, in knowing he was a part of something that could inflict a wound to those he considered his enemies, and that despite everything they’d taken from him his people was still standing. Not just standing, Hasheem corrected himself as he looked around him once more, but riding hard on a land that was still free, keeping tradition, holding pride, and smiling as they were doing now in the face of danger and the possibility of death. You could see it on all their faces, sense it in the air you breathe — the sweet, uplifting, dangerously addictive taste of what it felt like to be truly alive — something one would never fully understand without having defied death or faced the possibility of it.

 

Djari was right. He was enjoying this. Would have enjoyed it more had she been with them. He could imagine her smiling too, now, with those intense yellow eyes glowing in excitement, and that odd, near-silver hair tangling in the wind as she raced across the valley. He smiled briefly at that image, then realized that he might never see it. If there had been anger building in his chest about Djari’s lack of freedom, there was twice more of it now.

 

They rode up over a hill, dodging and jumping over the numerous white rocks that scattered around the area and descended into another valley. One of the riders near Nazir sounded a horn, and he knew they’d reached the hunting ground. The plain below was empty, however, not a single gazelle inside, then another horn sounded from the eastern side of the valley, and that was when real madness began.

 

From the eastern slope, the gazelles poured in, numbering near a hundred. Behind them, a different group of riders were seen driving them forward into the valley. Apparently, they must have sent these men out to round up the gazelles and bring them here. Looking around, Hasheem realized no one was slowing down as he’d expected, and then it dawned on him what was about the happen. One hundred galloping horses and as many gazelles on a stampede were about to clash into another. On purpose.

 

 _This is suicide_ , Hasheem caught himself swearing under his breath, looking at the catastrophe that was about to unfold in front of him.

 

At the very front, Nazir unslung his bow and notched an arrow. He did this on a galloping horse, while standing high on the stirrups, back straight as a spear. The action was followed promptly by the riders behind him who appeared to have copied the stance with incredible ease. They watched in silence, bow in hands, steering the horses with their knees as their khumar released his first arrow. The feathers were painted blue and gold, Hasheem noticed for the first time, like the sash. This was, after all, a ceremony as much as a game. The gazelles were to be offered to the goddess tonight. It was why they hunted only adult males.

 

Nazir’s arrow ripped through the air, flying straight and true into the herd, and the first gazelle went down. The hunters erupted into a high-pitched ululating cry as they drove their mounts forward, crashing into the stampede made up of near-hundred panicking gazelles. In a blink of an eye, Hasheem saw arrows being loosed in all directions and almost at once, all fitted with blue and yellow feathers resembling that of the khumar. The hunters were allowed just five arrows in their quiver, each carved with a specific number on the shaft to identify the rider who’d made the kill. _“Or who’d shot you in the leg,”_ Nazir had added with a laugh as he explained the procedure to him the day before. Hasheem didn’t find it funny anymore, now that he was in the middle of it. One could easily die doing this, and he wondered how many usually did every Raviyani.

 

The truth was, he had expected it to be a one-sided mass slaughter — a hundred riders making his pick from just as many gazelles. The reality, as much as it pleased him, was far more complicated. They hunted on a galloping horse with a bow in hand, steering with only their knees, while dodging and avoiding other riders cutting closely in front or running into them in the middle of what could only be described as utter chaos. And in the midst of all this, one were expected to carefully pick out a male gazelle, differentiable only by the white blaze on their forehead, which required facing it head-on to be certain, before trying to shoot it down from the back of a moving horse with just five arrows in the quiver. All the while one could only pray that the fellow archers were as good as they were meant to be and that their arrows didn’t end up half way in your thigh or in the flank of your horse. The latter would also result in a bad fall, followed by being trampled to death by the other horses, or the gazelles you were meant to hunt. It wasn’t even hunting, if one were to see it from the perspective of someone who was being caught in the middle of it. This was more like battle, where carelessness or a small mistake could kill you.

 

In just moments of being in the middle of the hunt, Hasheem came to realize the impossibility of it. As close as they were, the gazelles were tiny — no bigger than the size of a small fox — and quicker than their horses. By the time one could get close enough to identify a male target, it would almost always be too late to make a proper aim at the animal. On the occasions that a rider managed to lock down his aim on a gazelle, he would still have to make sure the way was clear, and that the arrow wouldn’t end up in someone’s body part, or that their’s wouldn’t end up in his. Hasheem didn’t quite see how one could bring down a gazelle under that circumstance. It was hard enough to not accidentally shoot someone or to get oneself shot in that valley.

 

And yet it wasn’t, not to these people. These warriors (in grays for that matter) were accomplishing all this with such unreasonable ease and humor that it was becoming more and more ridiculous to Hasheem the more he watched. While very few had managed to shoot down a gazelle, no one haddied or seemed to be dying from misfired arrows despite the chaos and the impossibility of it. All the hunters took great care before releasing their shots, and would often allow the gazelles to get away than to chance misfiring at other riders or their horses. Apparently, it was more embarrassing to accidentally shoot someone than to go home empty handed, Hasheem later came to realize. Some did miss, however, and while he found himself wincing every time a rider came limping out of the plain with an arrow wound, the men on the slope who’d already emptied their quivers were seen placing bets as to which loser’s arrow it was that they saw embedded in someone’s thigh or other more hilarious body parts. 

 

Which was what Nazir was doing, leaning his weight on one side of the saddle listening to Khali’s suggestion regarding whose arrow they’d just seen sticking out of his cousin’s butt.

 

“How many did you get?” Nazir asked, having noticed his presence for the first time.

 

Hasheem raised a brow. “Grays or gazelles?”

 

Nazir chuckled. “Both.”

 

“None and none,” he replied. “I got myself out with my ass intact, does that count?”

 

That earned him a laugh from both the khumar and the young gray by his side. Hasheem glanced at the boy’s quiver and wondered how many of those arrows had been shot ceremoniously and how quickly it had taken him to finish shooting the rest after knowing Nazir had finished his. Between gazelles and Nazir, there was no question which one of the two was the better catch if one were smart enough.

 

“How many did you two get?” He asked, guiding Summer to stand on the opposite side of Nazir.

 

“I got two. Khali shot one,” Nazir replied lightly, then added with a touch of stress in his tone, “Looks like we’re going to be short today.”

 

 _Short_ meant that there was a certain number they were supposed to bring back. That was new information to him. “How many are you supposed to get?”

 

“Twenty-five to thirty gazelles is good,” he said, keeping his eyes on the valley down below. “Anything below twenty is … unfavorable.”

 

 _Unfavorable_ wasn’t good for a khumar’s first time leading the hunt, Hasheem thought and began to regret having shot those arrows so ceremoniously. He looked down at the plain below and began to count the gazelles and hunters. There were about fifteen downed gazelles that he could see and about twenty of the latter left. There was still a good chance, wasn’t it? “How many can one bring down on average? Given more room?”

 

“About five to one, if we’re lucky.”

 

Hasheem swore. “Hunters to gazelles?” That would give them just four more, if they were lucky.

 

Nazir nodded. “Unless we have really good archers down there still. The gazelles have more room to run.”

 

It was true, now that he looked again. With less riders, the field was wider now and a large number of gazelles had already fled the valley having less horses to round them up. The best chance was at the beginning of the hunt, and a truly competent archer would have already taken his shots. One could do that very effectively in that chaos if he could aim and release fast enough and accurately enough in quick successions.

 

“What’s the most someone had shot down in a day?”

 

Nazir drew a breath. “Four.”

 

His eyes went wide. Four out of five. That was one hell of an archer. “And you didn’t bring him?”

 

“I didn’t bring _her,_ ” said Nazir, sighing heavily. “That was Djari’s number earlier this year.”

 

 _Of course._ Djari was their best archer, and could ride like she had been born on the saddle. This would have been a perfect playground for Djari, if only she could come. “Why didn’t you?”

 

Nazir looked a little uncomfortable about answering that question. “It would have taken five gray escorts,” he said, still fixing his gaze on the action below. “Five of our best who would miss out on the hunt…”

 

Five grays who would have preferred to hunt than to guard a girl. “And they weren’t willing,” Hasheem finished the sentence. It wasn’t hard to arrive at the conclusion. One complaint, and he could see Djari taking it as her duty to opt out of the event. Djari was Djari. Responsibility always came before all else with her.

 

Before he could voice his protest, Nazir turned swiftly to the sound of a different horn coming from the western side of the valley. Khali swore under his breath as he did the same.

 

“They’re early,” Nazir said, his expression grew suddenly cold.

 

“Who?”

 

“The Kamara,” it was Khali who replied, already gathering the rein and readying his mount. “They weren’t supposed to be here until we’re done.”

 

The Kamara khagan was their rival in the north. They shared a border made up of the Djamahari mountain range that had been keeping peace between them to a certain extent. Territory dispute happened from time to time between neighboring khagans when it came to taxing travelers and caravans in the White Desert, but they were considered mild conflicts and hadn’t happened as often in the past. With the Salar’s raiding parties pushing in more aggressively from the east, the khagans had less and less room to move these days. It, in turn, created more and more conflicts and tensions around the borders that weren’t always clearly defined in the desert. There had been as many as two incidents in the short time Hasheem had been there between the Visarya and the Kamara, and eight men had been injured in the process. They were about to face another that day, from the looks of it.

 

“Why are they here at all?” He asked. They were never supposed to be in the same place. Enteringanother khagan’s territory required permission from the chiefs unless one came with an intention to invade. This didn’t look like it fell in either circumstances.

 

“The hunting ground is always shared between khagans,” Nazir explained. There was unmistakable tension in his voice now, and those usually relaxed shoulders had become suddenly stiff. “But there are agreements on its usage controlled by Citara. We have priority this Raviyani.”

 

Before he could ask more questions, a new batch of riders and gazelles came pouring in to the valley, and Hasheem understood immediately why Khali had sworn when the second horn had been sounded. They were about to merge into one — the two hunting parties and gazelles — and Hasheem didn’t need to be told how many things could go wrong if such a thing were to be allowed to happen. Misfiring an arrow at someone’s cousin was maybe funny, doing so at a member of one’s rival khagan was not.

 

Nazir, for all his seemingly limitless ability to control his emotions, looked like he wanted to kill someone with his bare hands at that moment. Hasheem wondered if he would actually see the khumar loses it over this. That would have been a thing to remember for life.

 

 _It might also mean battle,_ Hasheem swallowed at the thought. Nazir had the authority to initiate it here if his patience were to reach its limit. He only had to fire an arrow into the new hunting party and kill one man and all hell would break lose. He looked like he wanted to do just that, and the men around him knew it. They all seemed to have stopped breathing as they waited, just as anxiously as Hasheem did, for their khumar to decide their fate.

 

It didn’t happen. Gripping the rein until his knuckles turned white, Nazir drew a long breath, closed his eyes, and then released it with a heavy sigh, dropping his shoulders as he turned to issue a command. “Tell Bhotsa to sound the retreat. The hunt is over.”

 

Khali turned his mount immediately, then paused before he took off, having noticed something on the plain. “Zozi is still down there, and so is Khodi,” he said, more to offer information than as an objection. “They’re not going to be happy.”

 

Hasheem followed his gaze to the valley below, saw both men, and grimaced. Khali was right. They were both sons of their chiefs. One, a proud, ambitious gray-clad warrior who would be severely pissed to miss a chance of making his mark, and the other…

 

The other happened to be wearing white whose younger, gray clad brother had just been handpicked by the khumar to join his leading party without him. Hasheem hadn’t noticed the older brother having been there until then. Zikh-clad warriors didn’t usually come to the hunt unless by invitation from the kha’a or the khumar. It was the grays’ playground and was considered beneath them. That day, Nazir had indirectly forced him to be there by inviting the younger brother and not the older. Khodi was going to have to prove he could bring down more gazelles than Khali to assert his authority, and now he was about to be pulled out of the hunt before he could do so. It wasn’t going to end well, no matter how he looked at it. Nazir had picked the wrong day to be playing a dangerous game.

 

“They just have to live with it,” Nazir said crisply. “I‘m not going to risk an open war over gazelles. Sound the retreat.”

 

An open war on his first watch no less, Hasheem thought, shortening his own rein. “Does this ever happen?” He asked once Khali was out of earshot.

 

“Every once in a while, when there’s a new kha’a or khumar.”

 

“They knew you were leading the hunt,” Hasheem said, anger rising in his chest. Things were becoming clearer to him now. It was why Nazir was wearing his most formal attire, of course. There was a chance they would run into each other, and appearance was everything. “They’re testing you.”

 

Nazir nodded. “A test. If it’s the khumar leading that party and not the kha’a. I can’t make out who it is yet, but be ready to ride back to deliver a message if it’s the latter.”

 

“Why the latter?”

 

He sneered a little at that. “A kha’a can get away with a son going rogue from time to time. If he comes himself —“

 

“He’s declaring war,” Hasheem finished the sentence. He swore again inwardly at a thought that suddenly occurred to him. “That’s why you didn’t bring Djari.”

 

“It was her choice this time,” he said regretfully, “but no, I wouldn’t have let her come, not on my first watch. Neither would the kha’a.”

 

She probably knew it, Hasheem was certain. They all knew what might happen the first time Nazir was allowed to lead the hunt. Za’in izr Husari had sent his only son — their _only_ oracle — out to be tried and tested, knowing what they stood to lose if things went wrong. It was why Djari looked the way she did this morning, seeing her brother in the stable. Luckily for them, Nazir’s self-control had proven to be well beyond his age.

 

Their horn sounded soon after, and Hasheem could see the hunters bringing their horse to a sudden stop down below. They seemed confused at first, then turned to see the other hunting party heading down the slope and promptly pulled their mounts to the side, swearing and all. From the distance he could see Zozi hesitating a little, before deciding to loose his last arrow at a gazelle, killing it with the shot before riding back up the slope. It could be considered a mild act of defiance, if Nazir had noticed the last arrow being fired _after_ the retreat had been sounded. Luckily for Zozi, the khumar had been staring at the other chief’s son. The one wearing white.

 

The same one who happened to have two more arrows in his quiver, having just shot the third, who was also looking straight at the three men on the slope that had been watching him. From the distance, Hasheem saw Khodi’s gaze swept over them. It registered the presence of his brother, then came to rest and linger on Nazir. Time stood still in that moment, and everything around them seemed to have disappeared into the surrounding, leaving just the two figures, both wearing white, both with eyes on each other, judging, measuring, weighing the consequences of their decision or the one they were about to make.

 

Then he saw Khodi turn his horse, not to the nearby slope, but towards the new herd of gazelles.

 

“Oh brother, no,” Khali, who had remained quiet until then mumbled under his breath as he watched his brother draw a new arrow out of the quiver. His gaze shifted back and forth between Nazir and the white-clad figure on the plain below. One might have been able to turn a blind eye and call it unintentional, as in Zozi’s case, if the arrow had already been nocked and loosed at the time the retreat had been sounded. Khodi, for the love of Ravi, had just drawn out a new one _after_ hearing the retreat and at the moment when the two herds had already collided.

 

And then loosed it.

 

The arrow, flying in a path as deliberate and precise as the man behind it, caught a gazelle easily in the throat, killing it instantly. Thrown forward by its own momentum as it collapsed, the dead gazelle slid across the ground a little to the right, and ended up under another rider’s galloping horse. The horse reared up, throwing the rider off its back in the process and landing him in the path of another rider coming from the opposite direction. It left no time nor room for the second rider to pull back his mount or jump over the man on the ground. The horse ran over him, and somewhere in the middle of the swirling sand kicked up by its hooves Hasheem could hear the sound of bone breaking from where he stood.

 

The sand settled. The first rider was on the ground, lying still on his back with his head turned to one side the way no head was supposed to. Not if one were still alive. The dead rider’s arrows, Hasheem noticed with a cold running down his spine, had been fitted with feathers of red and blue.

 

There was a hush from Khali, whose face had turned as pale as a corpse having just witnessed what he had on the slope above the plain. Next to him, Nazir who had also been watching the whole thing in a bone-chilling silence, was wearing an expression that Hasheem thought might have been what it looked like when he lost it.

 

It could freeze the blood in your veins, give you nightmares for weeks afterwards, just watching him that day. Nazir’s yellow eyes weren’t glowing yellow as he thought they would. They were cooled and deadly still, lacking in any emotion one might expect from a living being and almost white. His expression was flat and unreadable, like the surface of a black lake, or a very thin ice over the sea in winter. It felt to Hasheem that Nazir wasn’t looking at the plain before him at all, but rather at something only he could see, something in a different place or at different time. He looked like a ghost, or someone not of this world.

 

The air around him had turned colder somehow, and he could see the white smoke coming out of his mouth when he breathed as if it had already been nighttime. He looked around at the other riders and realized he wasn’t the only one. No one moved or made a sound, however. They stood still, watching their khumar’s every gesture, with fear clearly written on their faces, and just waited for it to pass.

 

They say the air turned cold when the door between the spirit and the living world opens. It occurred to Hasheem then that what he was witnessing might not have been Nazir losing it, but that he was having one of his visions. After all, what are oracles if not someone with a link to something no man could understand or enter? Nazir didn’t even look like someone who belonged there at that moment.

 

A short moment passed and the cold finally subsided. He saw Nazir’s eyes returning slowly to their normal color, and those shoulders relaxed a little. The look on his face, however, hadn’t changed.

 

“Take five men,” he said to Khali without turning away from the plain, his voice so thin and quiet it made Hasheem shiver a little hearing it. “Bring your brother in and meet me at that big rock by the tree.”

 

 _Not Khali_ , Hasheem thought, squeezing his eyes shut at the way Nazir had chosen to strike. Anyone but Khali would have been appropriate. There was already enough conflict between the two brothers as it was, without adding more salt to the wound that way.

 

He opened his mouth to speak, but Khali had already turned away. To his surprise, the command was followed promptly, without so much as a breath taken in between. Hasheem would have thought him heartless had he not seen the look on Khali’s face before he’d turned. He looked like someone who’d just been given a death sentence, as opposed to someone who was being sent to deliver it. Nazir hadn’t look at him once. He just stood there, a lone figure watching the scene below with his Zikh snapping sharply in the wind, deciding the fate of more than two hundred lives in that valley.

 

Or perhaps it had already been decided, and he was just preparing himself for what was to come.

 

Down below, a Kamara rider shouted something back to the others as he dismounted to drag the dead man off to the side. Soon after, a small group withdrew from the field and rode back towards the slope from where they’d arrived. He saw Khali escorting his brother off the ground with the other five warriors with him — all wearing a Zikh. The hunt went on, of course, for the Kamara. They couldn’t stop or the gazelles would be gone.

 

“Come,” Nazir said, turning his horse. The rest of his fourteen escorts turned theirs promptly. All but Nazir took out another quiver full of arrows from the saddle bag and replaced it with the empty one. The arrows were unmarked this time, of course. They weren’t meant for the gazelles. There were no limits, no marks needed for identification, no need to count the dead if they were to be used on men.

 

“Be ready to ride to the kha’a at my signal,” Nazir said to him. “If my father rides, you stay with Djari.”


	10. The Choice We Make

The man wearing the red and blue sash was young. His dark chestnut hair had been shaved about two-finger’s width on either side above his ears. Over each of those shaved lines was a single braid that had been twisted together with colored threads matching the sash he wore. There were two stripes painted on his left cheek, a thicker one in red and a thinner one just under it in blue. He was clean shaven, like all young Shakshi men were, with a strong jawline that spoke of years of hard training in combat, matching the outlines of his harshly chiselled, massive figure. His deep-set eyes — a piercing shade of green — were intense, unyielding. The khumar of Kamara, also wearing a Zikh, looked like a seasoned warrior who spent most of his days wielding that massive axe on his back hacking off limbs.

 

And Nazir…

 

Nazir looked like some vengeful spirit you didn’t fuck with who’d just been thoroughly and deliberately fucked just minutes ago. Which wasn’t at all far from the truth, if one had seen the exchange of looks between him and the man who’d done it before shit started raining from the sky. Khodi might as well have thrown a spear at Nazir and it would have resulted in something a whole lot less complicated.

 

The more he thought about it, the more he’d wanted to shoot the arrogant prick who was standing, still straight-backed and overly proud, between the five Zikh-clad warriors who’d escorted him up to the slope. Khali, however, had chosen a place by Nazir’s side, away from his brother. Hasheem would have done that too if he were in the boy’s position. It was better to be seen as far removed as possible from the idiot in white given the circumstance. For the first time since they’d met, he felt a little sorry for the boy.

 

There were twenty paces between the two parties. Each group formed a half circle on opposite sides of the big rock on the slope, facing each other with their khumar at the center, flanked by a similar number of warriors in a mixture of white and gray robes. All were still mounted, except for Khodi and two of the men who’d brought him out that positioned themselves on either side of the chief’s son. Hasheem looked around, noted the number of bows that had been drawn from both sides, each already fitted with an arrow, and realized that Nazir was about three bows short in comparison. It would have helped if he’d also carried an extra set of arrows, but Hasheem, being the only one not in white or gray and without any real skills in particular as far as everyone was concerned, had been considered both unimportant and unqualified to guard the khumar and therefore left uninformed of these protocols. In other words, he was a useless figure on that plain except if they needed a messenger to deliver a message.

 

 _A message containing news no one wanted to hear,_ he thought with a frown. It wasn’t an easy thing to swallow, and Hasheem found himself grinding his teeth once more at the lightness of his quiver. He’d been used, or cheap, and sometimes even offered for free in exchange for a favor or two, but never useless. There was a price to the comfort anonymity offered, and he might have to pay for it that day.

 

On the ground next to the khumar of Kamara was the body of the gray who’d fallen. He’d been laid carefully on his back, his limbs arranged neatly on a saddle cloth that had been spread with obvious care. Now that they were closer, Hasheem could see the young man’s face more clearly and realized he couldn’t have been much older than he was. His hair was a shade or two lighter than that of the khumar and had been shaved in a similar fashion. There were also colored threads in his braids, Hasheem saw for the first time, swearing more profanely in his mind now that he could guess what those meant.

 

“The boy was my father’s favorite nephew,” said the khumar of Kamara with a voice as harsh as his features and the confidence of a man used to issuing commands. “His death will be answered for appropriately as a member of the kha’a’s family. I await your proposal, Nazir khumar.”

 

Hasheem held his breath as he listened. There was to be no time wasted here. No subtlety needed. The negotiation was going to be short and quick and decided right where they were, as though it had been a matter that could be easily settled. Only everyone on that slope knew how high the price would be if some kind of an agreement wasn’t reached that day.

 

Next to him, Nazir sat his horse as lightly as a feather, his expression a neat, terrible one in contrast with the other khumar’s loud and near-barbaric appearance. _A ghost and a demon,_ Hasheem thought, watching the two khumars, both terrifying in their own way. It was difficult to tell which one of them would win if they ever fought, and he wished it wouldn’t come to that.

 

“His death,” Nazir said, his usually silky-smooth voice now thin as a blade, “was an accident and no fault of ours, Baaku khumar.”

 

“An accident,” said Baaku, “that could have been prevented had your rider retreated as he should have.”

 

“An _accident_ ,” Nazir repeated crisply, “that could have been prevented had you observed your time of arrival more carefully.” He paused, raising his chin a little higher. “ _As you should have._ For this, I, too, await your proposal for compensation.”

 

It occurred to Hasheem then, that Nazir had never had an intention to compensate for any death that occurred on the plain that day from the very beginning, and had made it clear just now that all the blame was to be placed upon the Kamara’s early arrival to the hunting ground. _“Always negotiate from a position of strength,”_ Dee had once said. The risk attached in this, however, was much too high in Hasheem’s opinion to be using that tactic. On the other hand, Nazir was their future kha’a with the entire khagan’s reputation to uphold. He couldn’t afford to be seen as a leader who was afraid to go to war.

 

“Unless, of course, it was intentional,” Nazir added silkily, despite the directness of his words and what they implied.

 

Silence fell upon them like a hammer. From below, the sound of death and slaughter grew suddenly louder as if to offer a taste of what lay just around the corner should they decided to go in that direction. Baaku khumar sat still on his horse, his face unreadable as he stared at Nazir, contemplating his next course of action, measuring the other man as he did. The men on both sides shifted on their saddles, holding their breaths as they waited for a response that would soon dictate their fate. Hasheem realized, amidst the crippling tension that permeated thickly in the air, that this was where the road forked for the Kamara. To admit to the mistake was to show incompetence and to bend to the Visarya. Deny it and Nazir would have no choice but to consider the act deliberate and a declaration of war.

 

As if in experiment, Baaku urged his horse forward a step, and in doing so triggered an almost simultaneous response that resulted in thirteen arrows being pointed directly at him at execution range. It was answered just as swiftly by sixteen more being trained at Nazir from the opposite side, every single one of them aiming for a swift kill.

 

Hasheem swallowed as he forced himself to remain still, knowing that it would only take a twitch of a horse or the slightest movement of a hand to initiate what could only be called a mass slaughter by that rock. Neither khumar would make it out of that place alive should a single arrow were to be let loose, and then both khagans would have a perfectly good cause to go to war.

 

Next to him, Nazir sat his horse easily, seemingly oblivious to the number of arrows that surrounded them. His eyes remained fixed on Baaku, who returned the gesture with no less conviction to assert his ground. After a suffocating moment, an understanding seemed to pass between them, and Nazir’s lips curled up a little into what appeared to Hasheem a ghost of a smile.

 

“Stand down,” said Nazir, to which the bows were promptly lowered if not with the same enthusiasm as before. “I’m sure we can settle this in a more civilized manner, or can’t we?” He added.

 

Baaku khumar stilled for a moment, and then signaled his archers to do the same. They did so as commanded, though not with any less hostility on their expressions. The arrows on both sides were still nocked to their bows, Hasheem noticed, ready to be fired in the split second that they were needed.

 

“Your explanation, Baaku khumar,” Nazir demanded. The question had to be answered, whether or not the bows had been withdrawn.

 

Baaku simply shrugged this time. “Gazelles can be unpredictable,” he said lightly, as though it had been the most common mistake in the world.

 

Nazir considered the reply calmly for a moment before offering a reply, “So can a man.”

 

It was difficult to tell which _man_ he was referring to and the double meaning didn’t escape the other khumar’s notice, judging from the way Baaku was grinning hearing it.

 

“Still, a mistake that offends must be answered for.”

 

Nazir nodded. “Concerning both pride and _punctuality_ , I’m sure.”

 

“The moment we entered the valley, the ground was ours,” said Baaku, holding himself broad and tall as he did. “It was intrusion to remain in the field and theft to shoot and kill our gazelle. For these offenses we have the right to kill on sight or capture to exact the punishments we see fit. For causing the death of a member of the kha’a’s family,” he paused, as if to make the point absolutely clear, “that is death to one generation of our choosing."

 

Hasheem drew a breath and glanced at Nazir. A generation would mean Khali or their parents on top of Khodi. Between a boy and a chief, there was no doubt which generation the Kamara would choose. Losing a chief would put the camp in a period of vulnerability and subjecting the khagan to possible attacks. They could lose both men and territory from this one single incident if Nazir couldn’t negotiate them out of this.

 

Nazir, however, seemed wholly unaffected by the proposal.

 

“The way I see it, the valley was still ours at the time of your arrival,” he said. “When you entered the field you intruded on _our_ ground and were deliberately preying on _our_ gazelles. I could have shot your cousin and every single one of your warriors and it would be well within our rights. His death is your own doing, not ours.”

 

Baaku sneered at that, his white teeth flashing as he did. “That may be true,” he said, “ _before_ you sound the retreat. You forfeited your right to the ground when you did so, and he shot our gazelle _after_ , not before. Take the matter to Citara if you want. The White Tower will say the same.”

 

It would all come down to this fact, of course, Hasheem thought bitterly. Khodi’s action had been more than just a show of defiance toward his khumar, but also breach of protocol from the Visarya side that was going to put the entire khagan at risk.

 

Nazir’s expression turned grim for a moment, and then it was replaced by a smile that could chill one’s bones.

 

“Oh I can take the matter to Citara, but then you will forfeit your right to the hunting ground for at least ten years for breaching protocol. You know this,” said Nazir calmly, as if from an adult to a child. “Try me again, Baaku. What retribution do you seek?”

 

The sneer faded quickly from the other khumar’s face as he realized too late the consequence of his own threat. The prospect of losing the rights to the hunting ground altogether wasn’t a risk worth taking, considering how important it appeared to be for the Shakshis. Hasheem found himself breathing again at that. For all this subtleties, Nazir was no pushover and knew very well how to put a knife to a man’s throat.

 

“My cousin’s life must be honorably compensated,” Baaku replied after a moment of consideration. “A member of the kha’a’s family is worth at least five men of equal rank. I expect them to be delivered before Raviyani is over.”

 

 _That would be five grays,_ Hasheem thought. Five young men — or boys — from the khagan put to death or subject to torture. It wasn’t a big number, but no matter who Nazir chose it was going to create some bitterness towards the ruling family, and then conflict from within the khagan would follow. _“The easiest way to befall cities and empires was to rot it from the inside out,”_ Dee had once said. It was a smart move by the Kamara, he had to admit.

 

Nazir listened and nodded. “Or one White warrior who is also the eldest son of our chief. It is a reasonable compensation and should be acceptable,” he paused and then added firmly, “in the eyes of Citara.”

 

Khali stirred a little at that. A small distance from him, his brother was still standing with his back straight as a spear, showing no trace of a man who was being offered to the enemy to do with as they pleased. Then again, he was one of the White Warriors, men who were expected and trained to kill themselves before capture to protect the secrets of Citara. He would have been prepared for this. Still, Hasheem wondered what would happen to him if he were to be taken, and decided that it was better he didn’t know. A life for a life was the best Nazir could do to control the damage Khodi had caused, and they could only hope the Kamara would agree to it.

 

“It is,” Baaku replied though with obvious agitation. It was clearly not what he’d hoped to accomplish but after such a threat from Nazir, they, too, had damage to control. “We’ll take him.”

 

“That will not be necessary,” Nazir said flatly. “Khali!”

 

The address had been a command, spoken in a tone as firm and resolute as the crack of a whip. Hasheem whipped his head around just in time to see Khali loosed his arrow. It zipped through the air and pierced cleanly through the socket of Khodi’s right eye, killing him in an instant, leaving no time for a single sound to escape from his lips at the moment of death. The whole thing happened faster than one could blink from the time the command had been issued, as if it had been staged or agreed upon long before that afternoon.

 

Atop his horse, Khali sat with his back stiff and straight, his expression betraying no remorse, no guilt for what he’d just done as he lowered his bow. He turned to Nazir who’d been watching him closely and bowed in a gesture of respect, perhaps even in gratitude if his ability to read people had been accurate. Nazir simply nodded and turned back to Baaku khumar, as though he’d just ordered the boy to kill a gazelle and was adequately pleased by the outcome.

“There was no need to waste your arrow or your time,” Nazir said, inclining his head as if showing courtesy. “And if you do not require a body, I would like to give him a proper burial as befitting his rank and status. Will this be acceptable?”

 

“It will be.” Baaku dipped his head slightly. He wasn’t smiling now and had been watching Nazir intently for some time. They had come to test and measure the new leader of the hunt. The test and measurement had been done and the result was obviously unfavorable to the Kamara.It should have been enough to make them think twice before trying it again.

 

"For your breach of protocol,” Nazir said, wasting no time in between, “I will require ten gazelles tonight and two hundred silas for each unfired arrow as compensation for the offense done here today.”

 

Murmurs rippled through the men on the other side of the rock and Baaku shook his head almost in disbelief.

 

“You might as well ask for my sister,” he said and spat onto the ground. “Five gazelles is all I can give you."

 

“Then we take the case to Citara,” Nazir replied calmly, and without another word turned his horse away to leave.

 

Locking his gaze on Nazir’s back, Baaku considered for a time, and then made his decision. “ _If_ you survive to carry the news, of course,” he said with a lightness to his tone that could have been mistaken as a jest. It didn’t, however, match the conviction in those green eyes or how rigidly he sat his horse.

 

Hasheem drew a breath and closed his hand around the dagger at his waist. At the same time, every bow on both sides was raised once more without the need for command.

 

Nazir, still with his back to the khumar, turned slowly to look over his shoulder, showing not the least of care for the possibility of being shot by more than a dozen arrows at once.

 

“Oh I’ll survive,” Nazir responded easily, with a smile so thin it could peel the skin off your bones. Staring straight at Baaku, eyes flashing golden as if to remind them all who and what he was, he said, “Would you like to know if you will?”

 

Baaku swallowed, and upon realizing it adjusted himself quickly to hide the hesitation that managed to slip through his mask of confidence. You didn’t argue about your death with an oracle, not one as powerful as Nazir, especially not in front of your men who were waiting to replace you as khumar. Baaku knew this. He parted his mouth to speak and then closed it again, taking a little more time before coming to a decision.

 

“Five gazelles and two hundred silas for each man with unfired arrows. Take it or leave it.”

 

Nazir smiled. “It will do. I will be expecting them before sunset,” he said and rode away without another word.

 

The warriors followed him out, and the Kamaras dispersed grumpily soon after, returning to the hunting ground. Hasheem lingered for a time, watching Khali who’d stayed behind jumped off his mount and headed to where his brother’s body had been left by the rock. The boy’s usual relaxed and smooth features hardened as he stood above it. _Not a boy,_ Hasheem corrected himself, cold anger rising in his chest. There was no trace of innocence, no hint of any youthful eagerness to face the world left on that face. The moment Khali had fired that arrow to end his brother’s life, it had ended a boy’s life along with it and gave birth to a man.

 

A man who would kill, from now on, in cold blood, in spite, seeking retribution or some form of justification from every corpse he created for what he’d done today. And he would never find it. No matter how long or how many men he would kill. Hasheem knew this. He’d been that boy, and now that man.

 

He turned to stare at he party riding away from that slope, clenching his fists to hold back the rage that had been consuming him since the command had been made. As if sensing his hostility, Nazir paused to look over his shoulder, catching his gaze with those ghostly yellow eyes. He bore into them, seeking a hint, a trace of guilt or regret in their frightening glow, and didn’t find it. Nazir’s expression was flat and cold, lacking in any emotion one might expect from a man who’d just ordered a boy to kill his own brother. For the first time since he’d set foot at camp, Hasheem realized he was looking at a stranger, that he knew nothing of Nazir or what he was capable of.

 

 _No, not a stranger,_ he corrected himself. He had seen that look before, on the faces of the guards at Sabha, on that of the general whose dark eyes had glinted the same way looking down at the bodies that littered the ground around him.

 

_“It’s just you and him now, pretty boy. What will it be?”_

 

He could still remember the sound of that voice, the weight of the dagger in his hand, the way it felt as he plunged it into Aziz’s heart, even the sound the boy had made as he dropped, lifeless, onto the floor. His only friend in the dungeon, the only one who’d watched his back, cleaned his wound, kept him food when he’d been returned too late to the cell, dead by his very own hands.

 

 _“Him, or it’s both of you.”_ The general’s voice had been quiet, but the words had echoed back and forth off the stone walls as if to make sure neither of them would miss it. He remembered the horror on Aziz’s face, how quickly the blood had drained from it at the thought of being put to torture. They’d tried to escape from Sabha that night and had been caught just as they’d reached the back entrance. That day they’d all learned why escape attempts were so rare. The Rashais didn’t waste their effort killing prisoners. They made you kill each other until there was only one left, or they tortured and burned you alive to set an example. At ten years old nothing scared you more than the prospect of being put to a slow death that way, even if you’d already been passed around to entertain more generals than you could count. In the hell of Sabha, you did what you were told. You killed to survive, even if a part of yourself died along with it.

 

And it had been the same cold, marble-like face that had seen it done. The same look in his eyes as in those golden orbs that were looking at him now. Uncompromising, unyielding, and utterly unaffected by what he’d ordered done that day.

 

It might have been more merciful to kill Khodi right on the spot, he knew enough to figure that out and might have done the same had he been in Nazir’s shoes. But it didn’t have to be Khali.It didn’t, no matter how disrespectful his brother had been, or what wrong he’d done. And yet Nazir had issued the command as though it had been the most natural thing in the world, with no more hint of remorse than the general who’d forced him to kill Aziz that day. And for what? For publicly defying him? To state his authority? To make a point?

 

 _They’re all the same,_ he told himself. He should have known there would be no more solace here, or anywhere, than in the hell of Sabha. But he won’t bend to it, not here, not now that he had been freed from those chains.

 

His defiance would be picked up, of course, the message he was sending wasn’t subtle, and Nazir’s ability to read people had been as exceptional as Dee’s. The khumar stilled for a time, reading him from a distance, and without the slightest change in expression, tugged decisively on his rein to lead his men out of the valley.

 

He watched them disappear from the slope before turning back to Khali who was still standing over his brother’s body, staring at the arrow he’d let flown, and searched for the right words to say. There were none he could find that would make a difference. Why would there be? None had done so for him in the past, and no words nor any action would do so now or ever would. And Aziz had been a friend he’d known for less than a year. This was his brother Khali had killed, someone he’d spent his entire life growing up with, measuring himself against, perhaps even looked up to from time to time. That kind of wound didn’t heal, no matter how hard one tried.

 

“You need to leave,” Khali said firmly without turning around. “Before Nazir finds it an offense.”

 

He snorted at that. “I don’t give a damn how Nazir finds it.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it might be considered treason, and yet he didn’t care. He was too angry to care.

 

Khali shut his eyes tight and drew a long, harsh breath, as if to quell something within. “You don’t get it, do you?” He shook his head and turned to look at Hasheem, his green eyes burning with rage, with pain, and a flux of other emotions too numerous to put into words. “My brother defied the khumar. That made him a traitor. That made _me_ and _everyone_ in my family a traitor. We all die tonight if the kha’a doesn’t find that arrow a sufficient show of loyalty!” He pointed at the arrow in his brother’s eye, gritting his teeth as he spoke. “Until that decision is made I am a traitor and so does anyone who associates himself with me. You are Djari’s swornsword and blood. Nazir will have no choice but to kill me and all of us before you are dragged into this. You need to leave and leave _now_!”

 

A gush of wind rushed through the valley, and Hasheem felt his entire body going numb at those words. They struck at him like lightning, opening his eyes and shocked him into an understanding at once. How had he not seen it? Khodi had been the eldest son of their chief, a man who ruled one-fifth of the khagan’s population. An act of defiance from him was treason that extended to the entire family. They could never be trusted now, not until they could prove it, somehow, that the incident had been an isolated one, that this had been a case of a son going rogue and not a conspiracy against the ruling family. And they were going to have to prove it in a way that left no one with the slightest bit of doubt to stay alive.

 

 _If the kha’a doesn’t find that arrow a sufficient show of loyalty._ Khali’s words came down upon him like a hammer. It _had_ to be Khali. Nazir knew this and had made sure of it to at least save the boy’s life. The execution had to be done swiftly and without hesitation to prove his loyalty to Nazir. Khali had to loose that arrow without pause, without betraying the slightest hint of bitterness as he did or afterwards, to show them how far he was willing to go to fulfill a khumar’s command. Still, his family remained at risk tonight, and Khali was right, him being here could kill them all.

 

He swore inwardly at that realization. He was Djari’s swornsword and blood, his wrong doings were also hers. She would be punished along with him if he were to be considered a traitor by the khagan. Nazir or the kha’a would surely end that possibility before it became a reality, even if it meant putting an entire family — or the entire camp — to the sword, before word got out that he might be taking Khali’s side in this.

 

“I didn’t … know,” he said breathlessly, his skin crawling with guilt that plagued him like worms on a rotting corpse. This was both dangerous and stupid. He had defied Nazir, put an entire family at risk, and Djari along with it. How could he have been so blind, after all that he’d been through?

 

Khali shook his head, his expression somewhere between pity and disgust. “No,” he said, “How could you have known? You walk among us like a ghost, leeching on our food and water when Nazir had stood up for you, made you Djari’s swornsword and blood, and brought you into his family. _The kha’a’s family!_ You’ve been here a month and all you’ve done was lurking from the shadows, excluding yourself from everything as if we’re not good enough for you. Like you have somewhere else to go. Make a decision, _ogui,_ or your ignorance will bring down this khagan and everyone in it _._ Are you one of us or are you not?”

 

From the other side, Khali stood with his chest heaving, burning green eyes pinned him down like a spear to the throat. And all he could do was to stand there, looking back, searching for the right words to respond to what he knew, deep down, had been nothing but the truth.

 

He _had_ been living like a ghost in the khagan, without use or purpose, passing each day watching everything from afar. He held no position because he didn’t want one, had even turned down the possibility when Nazir had offered it to him. The emptiness of his quiver was the result of it, so was the fact that he was standing here when he should have understood the risk and followed Nazir back to camp. His ignorant was a liability to Djari, to Nazir, to the kha’a’s family. It would ruin them, unless he committed himself to the khagan and earned his place in it.

 

Or he could leave. Leave now, before it was too late. Before they became one more thing that could be lost. He could do that. Only Khali would be right.

 

 _Ogui,_ Khali had called him. A Rashai word they used to call raid survivors that had no use in the slave quarters or the pleasure district. Those who became beggars or scavengers, wandering aimlessly in the desert with no real purpose in life. The scums. The garbage. The leeches of the society. Could he live with himself knowing he was one of them?

 

He never gave Khali that answer. He’d left him there and rode back alone to camp, lost in his own thoughts and exhausted by everything that had happened that day. The thrill of the hunt stilled lingered under his skin, the pounding of his heart that had made him feel so alive could still be felt in his chest. He had found a part of himself that had been lost long ago in the desert, had felt the yearning, the desire to keep something and never let go again for as long as he lived. He’d found Djari, the shining beacon that gave his life direction, and purpose, and hope that he hadn’t known still existed within him. And he’d found Nazir, who wanted to give him a place, a position, the power to change things he’d never had. He could stay, and embrace it all. Become a real part of the khagan. Get his life back. Start over. Live, and love again.

 

And then he thought of Nan’ya, lying in her own pool of blood the same way his mother had in her own tent, of Djari screaming like his sisters when the soldiers had dragged them off to be raped and sold like animals. Of Nazir’s and the kha’a’s white robe staining red as they lay dying on the sand just like his father’s.

 

The memory struck him like a punch in the gut, emptying the air in his lungs all at once. Six years, and he was still retching every time it resurfaced. The nightmares still came and plagued him during the night like it had been yesterday when it’d happened. The same knife plunging into his heart every time he had to relive it. The same bottomless pit he had to crawl out of to survive.

 

 _“Never love something so much that you can’t live without,”_ Dee had said. _“They will come for it. They always do.”_

 

And he knew. _He knew_ it better than anyone alive the truth to those words. They _had_ come and would come again. Everyone he cared about died. Only this time he wouldn’t survive it. He couldn’t.

 

The wind blew and tugged at his robe from the west, bringing with it a faint smell of the sea. The coast of Samarra wasn’t far from here. It would be two days ride at most, maybe one if he had the right horse. He could take Summer and let him run home when he reached the border. His water skin was still almost full and the missed arrows he’d collected would be enough for him to hunt for food. No one would bother looking for him on Raviyani. He could get away cleanly, and leave all this behind him the same way he’d put everything else behind.

 

He thought about seeing her one last time, to be in the presence of that bright light surrounding her that could always make him forget the things he’d done. To see the reflection of himself in those yellow eyes that had always appeared so untainted and admirable when she looked at him. He could go back to camp, to see her, stock up some supplies, and slip out into the night during the celebration. He could do that.

 

But then he would never leave.

 

Hasheem shook his head to clear away those thoughts. One glimpse of Djari, and it would all be over. He would dive into it again, the same way he had done when she’d shot him with that arrow.

 

No. It was time to go.


End file.
